Out of the Blue
by The Brilliant Fool
Summary: Chapter Twenty-Nine! Fawn Price has a terrible case of selective mutism, a history in the foster care system, and a bunch of really unfortunate feelings for her best friend. As always, please review!
1. A Girl Arrives

Doctor Bertram's house sat on a slope a little offset from the university, aloof in its private dell. My first memory of it, peering over the windshield of my social worker's beat-up Buick, was an impression of shocking size and a surging feeling from the base of my ribcage that must have been something bordering on complete awe. My favorite movie at the time-I had just turned eight-was Beauty and the Beast, and that's exactly how the Bertram house seemed: as grand and austere as an enchanted mansion.

I remember, too, being disappointed when we turned into a smaller drive that led to a little cottage set a little ways off. Somehow I felt cheated of my big surprise, the promise of which had been how anyone had been able to coax me into this car and away from my family in the first place. The tires made that teeth-grinding sound, that screech on the gravel. My social worker, Edwina, put down her directions from where she had been holding them in the middle of the steering wheel, turned off the engine with a sigh, and peered down to where I was kneeling up between the bucket seats, all pretense of wearing my seatbelt completely forgotten.

"Well, punkin, what do you think?" I just looked at her, still gaping and overwhelmed by our drive up, and she chuckled. "Come on, buddy, let's go see your new room." She popped open the door, groaning as she shifted her body to get out of the car. I followed suit, delighting in the feeling of the breeze, the unexpected coolness of the sunny July day. Noise from the outside world invaded my reverence, and shouts from the lawn made me turn in surprise. Two boys, one taller than the other by several inches, ran out from behind a clump of trees farther on, chasing a muddied soccer ball. I normally stayed away from other kids, who were usually nosy and curious and offput by my silence. I stood awkwardly, watching them play. I hadn't known that there would be other children.

Edwina put her hand on my shoulder. "Come on, bud." She steered me into the house, and soon enough we were sitting in a pristine living room and, at least on my part, trying not to mess it up. The woman who swept in a moment later was apparantly my aunt. Aunt Nola. Much of the conversation she and Edwina had escapes my memory; I don't think it was anything beyond the general niceties strangers have to say to each other. I was more conscious of my shoes, and more specifically the dirt that I was sure was stuck in the treads on my soul. There was nowhere I could put my feet without touching expensive and thick Persian carpeting, camel colored and smooth. I looked up at the woman, Aunt Nola, who paused in her conversation to Edwina to glance down at me, and for the first time I felt a real trickle of fear. This woman terrified me, and I was muddying her carpet.

Aunt Nola didn't offer Edwina anything to eat or drink. She didn't ask me if I wanted juice or if I had a favorite doll. When they ushered me upstairs to look at my new room, even at eight years old I knew they were just trying to get rid of me so they could talk about me. The stairs didn't creak, even though the building was so old, and the lush carpet gave way to shiny parquet, the baseboards painted an impeccable Nordic white. There were no family portraits on the walls. My directions had been "It's the open door," and eventually I found it at the end of the darkened hall. It was huge, so much more space than I could ever have imagined having to myself, and proper, and completely devoid of any personality. I wondered if Aunt Nola would let me hang things from the walls. I knew she wouldn't.

I sat on the bed for a moment, but I felt awkward in the room that was and wasn't mine, and I slipped off to creep down the pitch black hall and silent stairs again. I didn't intend to eavesdrop on Edwina and Nola's conversation-at least, I don't think I did-but by the time I got to the middle of the staircase, I could hear them just fine.

"...not a physical condition," Edwina was saying. "She _can_ speak perfectly. It's the psychological aspect that worries us. She could have gone to her uncle's like her brother, but he doesn't have the resources for the therapy she would need to get her speaking right. And since you're next of kin..."

"I see. Well, since we've agreed to it, there's probably no use talking about it any more. We'll make sure everything's done right."

"You do understand that this will mean a serious time commitment on your part? She needs to feel really comfortable here before she'll speak to anyone, and even then it'll be lucky if you get more than a few words from her at a time. Speaking is difficult for her under the best circumstances." I could tell Edwina was uncomfortable from the way she was talking. Maybe Aunt Nola scared her, too. "And the regular therapy sessions will be time consuming."

"We've discussed it. We all understand exactly what this will mean." I wondered who "we" meant. The house yawned emptily around me: we were as insulated here as we had been in car, but with the curtains over the windows it felt as if we were cut off from everything. Maybe we were. "I just hope that she'll learn to be grateful for all we're giving her here."

There was a pause. "I don't think you'll have any problems with that." Then the sound of muffled footsteps, and I ducked back down to the room that was mine, ready for the women to arrive to inspect the place. The rest of Edwina's stay is largely a blur, but I know she was thorough, and I remember that little by little, Aunt Nola's patience wore down. In two hour's time, my suitcase was on the floor, Edwina's car was pulling out of the drive, and Aunt Nola had me by the elbow, pulling me unceremoniously across the path between the cottage and the big house. The boys, who had stopped playing and were lying down under a sheltering tree, sat up and stared at us, but I kept my eyes down until we were through the door and up another flight of stairs. I barely had time to look around me at the opulence of the Bertram house before I was pulled through a large set of doors and was suddenly in the middle of a room full of people. I got the impression of a woman on a couch with a dog in her lap, a man standing by the window, and two girls around my age playing a card game on the rug.

Into this pastoral scene Aunt Nola flung me, before planting her hands on her hips and saying to the room at large, "Does anyone mind telling me why that woman thought _I _was the one getting her?" She may have gestured at me, but my eyes were fixed so firmly on the floor I don't know.

There was a moment's surprised silence, then, from the couch, "Oh, is this her? I didn't think she was coming until next week."

From the window, the man's deep voice, "She's _your _niece, Nola. Naturally we assumed-"

"It's outrageous. I can't have her. Not here, in my house, when Norris is sick. We're on top of each other as it is; having her around will only make things worse for him. You have to take her. You have the space."

I had never seen such an enormous house. I had never imagined that there could be a place like this. As for Aunt Nola and the others, talking about me like I didn't exist, I have to admit that at that moment, I really wanted to _not_ exist. I felt petrified and embarrassed and I suddenly missed the fussy, overprotective Edwina's company. At least she acknowledged that I was there.

"She was put into your custody, Nola," came the man's rebuttal, which was a good one to my mind. "You have to be the one to raise her."

Nola's furious protests were cut off by the door opening again. Chancing retribution, I looked up from where my eyes had been burning a hole in the carpet to see the same two boys from the soccer game step into the room. Both their eyes fixed on me, the taller boy giving me the curious once-over that I had seen several times before, the shorter one meeting my eyes and smiling encouragingly. I wished with everything I had that I could smile back at him, but instead I averted my eyes.

Aunt Nola, who hadn't taken much notice of the two other girls in the room, bit off her diatribe. Someone, I think it was the woman on the couch, managed to bring some semblance of order to the proceedings, and went around with introductions.

My first impressions of the Bertram family- who were technically my cousins by marriage; the nieces and nephews of Aunt Nola's husband, who was Mrs Bertram's half brother-have blended so much with how I came to know them that I'm not sure if I remember them correctly. I don't know if I liked Ned best then, but I'm pretty sure I did. I think that Mireille and Julia must have intimidated me almost as much as Aunt Nola did, and Tom, so tall he was a source of unending awe, seemed as grownup to me as any of the actual adults. From Mrs Bertram, clutching her miniature pug on her lap, there was only the vague suggestion of a personality, but at least she wasn't frightening. Mr Bertram, all silhouetted in the window, seemed as untouchable as a god.

And then there came that moment, that moment that came every time I had to meet new people without the benefit of an Edwina or my brother to shield me or warn the others. It was the moment I always dreaded because it was the moment when they would start asking me questions, expecting me to be a quiet girl, a little shy, a little reluctant to make a sound in public, but one who could do it, if called upon. I'm sorry, I don't remember what the question was, or if it was even a question, but suddenly all eyes were on me, and it became clear that everyone expected me to respond, and I tried. I did try. I opened my mouth and tried to form the words, to give breath to them, get them out of my throat before they choked me, but try as I might, nothing came out. The expectant expressions around the room grew guarded or scornful, and in a panic I turned my eyes to Aunt Nola, who knew my condition, who had been warned, who could tell the rest of the group what was wrong, and she looked down at me with cold eyes, mor scornful than the rest of them put together. I disgusted her, and she didn't mind that I could see it. If I hadn't known it before, my strangled failure to speak when expected told us all that I could never, and would never belong.

I didn't need Aunt Nola to put me in my place. I was perfectly capable of doing that my myself.

* * *

><p>It was Mireille's idea to call me Fawn. My real name, Flannery, was either too Irish or too interesting to be used on me, and besides, that's how I looked anyway, all silent and big-eyed and awkward. Soon enough everyone, even Ned, stopped using my real name, and by some point after that I'm sure they forgot what my real name was.<p>

If I were to tell you all the small things that happened to me over the course of ten years or so that I lived at Mansfield University, which I would later learn was the school's name, I would run the risk of boring you to death. There is one thing, however, that is important, and that is my relationship with Ned.

One day, about two weeks after I arrived at Mansfield, Ned found me in the closet, crying my eyes out. It had been two weeks since I'd been able to say a word, which was actually a record for me then, and Mireille and Julia, not terribly forgiving at the best of times, had been particularly nasty with me that day. On the whole I felt slow and stupid and out of sync with the rest of my now-very-small world, not to mention the abject fear Aunt Nola had put me in at the beginning had given way to a constant wariness and mutual distrust. Tom was old, Mr Bertram and his wife were adults, and so there was no one to talk to.

When Ned found me (entirely by accident) he took one look at me and walked quickly to the kitchen, only to come back with a pint of mint chip ice cream and two spoons. I looked up at him with what I knew were my big deer eyes, slightly awed by his audacity to just go into the kitchen whenever he wanted and take what he liked, and accepted the spoon without hesitation. It seemed to me that Ned, four years older than me, had some sort of power I didn't, that he could make things happen that no one else could.

After we'd taken several spoonfuls each, he asked "Why were you crying?"

I stared down at the ice cream, trying to ignore the enormous tears that leaked their way out of my eyes and down my chin, trying to be casual just like he was and failing miserably. I shrugged.

"Fawn. Look at me." I didn't want to look. I wanted to be anywhere else where I wouldn't _have _to look at him. But he said it so gently that I felt like I owed him that much at least. I looked at him. His face, the already-prominent cheekbones, the closely-cut chestnut hair, the straight, serious brows, the kind eyes, the generous mouth, were all configured in an expression of concern that became more pronounced the longer he looked at me. He seemed to know without knowing.

"They're not nice to you, are they? Everyone else, I mean."

This time I didn't even try to say anything.

"Sorry." But whether he was sorry I was sad or sorry they were mean to me or sorry for something different entirely, I don't know."

"Does it hurt you, when you try to talk?"

Now I looked away from him, down at my spoon, down across the closet, anywhere else but him.

"Sorry," he said again, "I guess that's rude, right? But _can _you talk?"

I gave a little nod of my head, a twitchy motion like I was waving off a fly.

"Okay. This ice cream is really good." I looked up at him, surprised by the change in conversation. He smiled at me. "One time my father took Tom and me out to get ice cream, and he had a business call so he gave Tom and me the money and told us to get whatever we wanted. Tom got, like, this huge cone," he used his hands to show me; an improbable size, a hyperbole of ice cream, "and he had them put rainbow sprinkles and Gummi Bears and nuts on it. It was the biggest thing I'd ever seen, andeveryone was staring at it. Tom ate it so fast he has a stomach ache for hours afterwards, and Dad was so angry because Tom took half the money just for himself. You should have seen it, though, it was pretty amazing. What's your favorite kind of ice cream?"

"Peach." The word came out before I even had time to get worked up, and I smiled in spite of myself. Ned smiled right back, his entire serious face lighting up with joy so that it was unrecognizable.

"Peach is good. We don't have any right now, but I can put it on the grocery list if you like, and we can get some for you." I thought about that morning, when there hadn't been any breakfast for me at Aunt Nola's house, and I thought about Ned asking for ice cream for me, and I couldn't contain my gratitude. I smiled again, and pulled my legs into my chest, afraid joy would burst out of my seams.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"What did you get?" Maybe it was the ice cream, but words were coming easier to me now.

"Sorry?"

"When you got ice cream with Tom. What did you get?"

Need quirked his mouth up in a smile that was entirely different from the big one he'd just given me. "Vanilla yogurt, in a cup. We only had enough for one, so my dad and I shared because he left his wallet at home." He shrugged, and so did I, and he smiled again, a real one this time. I knew at that moment that I would do almost anything to make him smile.

Ned and I grew inseparable after that, and he indulged me. He never told me that I kept him from playing with boys his age; he never complained that I was slow or boring or stupid. Even in the years when the difference between our ages made a huge difference in our personalities, Ned never said one mean or hurtful thing to me, worlds different from the quiet, pernicious sarcasm in Aunt Nola's house. He helped me do the speech exercises the well-meaning but largely inefficient speech therapist wanted me to do, and he read aloud to me, sometimes for hours, whenever I asked him to. He was the best friend I could ever dream of, and we did everything together.

I thought that it would always be that way.


	2. Nighttime Ramblings

On the morning I turned eighteen, I got up as usual, opening my eyes to the predawn light, allowing myself enough to wake up and be able to manoeuver the low ceiling in the attic room. The day after my fourteenth birthday, now four years ago already, I had woken up and sat up immediately, giving myself an unsightly bruise and a bump the size of a goose egg on my forehead. That was when the room had been brand new to me. I was used to it now.

The summer humidity in New England made the attic unbearable, since it was the only room in the house that didn't have air conditioning or even good air circulation. After sitting up carefully and unsticking myself from my sheets, I stood and stretched, trying to shake off the kind of desperate doziness that lay over my mind, trying to force my body back to sleep by sheer force of will. I never slept well in the summers. My pajama top, the very smallest t-shirt I owned, was drenched in my sweat, so I grabbed a towel and tiptoed my way downstairs to the guest bathroom. The best thing about my early morning schedule was that it gave me the free time to do what I needed to do without arousing ire or suspicion; Nola and Norris slept until at least ten o'clock on Saturdays.

When it was very quiet, the house sometimes made a ticking noise, something that had scared me when I was younger, but I liked now. On mornings like this, when I was all alone, it felt like it was trying to speak to me.

It wasn't until I turned on the water and had let it cascade down on me for five or so minutes when I remembered that today was not like every other day. Only moments ago, I had been happy that Norris wouldn't wake up until ten. I realized with a pang of horror that Norris was dead, that he had died in his sleep four days ago, and I had been callous. I finished my shower as quickly as possible, flung on some clothes, and ran out into the humid morning air, putting as much distance between myself and the house. I had a morning routine, and I stuck to it faithfully now, mindful of the noise my steps were making, modulating the sound of my breathing. I didn't know if the Bertrams knew about my breakfast habits, and I really preferred that they didn't for the time being. My position here at Mansfield, whatever it was, was still awkward.

Mansfield proper was, if possible, even cooler in climate than Aunt Nola's house, and I languished while taking off my shoes in the little mud room by the pantry door. To live in this kind of temperature all the time would mean never wanting to go outside, and in the bowels of July that seemed like a perfectly valid life choice. The refrigerator gave a tiny blast of colder air to my face, and I pulled out the milk as slowly as I could. My breakfast, every day for the past eight or so years, had consisted of Cheerios and milk, since the Bertrams kept massive amounts of the stuff in the pantry at all times and no one would ever miss what I took.

Scooping up one of the last spoonfuls of Cheerios, I watched the remaining o's float along the surface of the milk, trying to preserve the moment before people woke up and I would have to be available, as I always was. In the mornings I was available to only myself, but soon there would be other people around me to get things for and make myself useful to. That, being helpful, was what I really liked to do. Thinking anything else was too complicated. But cereal—cereal was simple.

It was my first funeral. I had dug up black clothing somewhere, but I still felt shabby next to the rest of the family. Even Ned, standing silent and somber next to me, was well turned out in his suit and tie, his shoes shined to perfection. Mireille, up front between her fiance and Julia, looked so sophisticated that I felt every bit the awkward child I had always been around her. She had barely spared me a glance when the three of them, always inseparable, had stepped into the over-air-conditioned parlor, but I really didn't mind that. Things tended to go better when Mireille didn't notice me.

The funeral was open casket, and after the few brief words that could be said about Norris Spencer had, in fact, been said, we sat in silence, quiet organ music piped over us on the speaker system. I stole a look to Aunt Nola, who, apart from being paler than usual, didn't look terribly distressed about the proceedings. Instead, her face bore the calm, haughty look it usually had, the one that covered up her general displeasure with everything around. I would have to be careful not to let her see me for a while. There were a lot of people I would have to avoid today.

From my place next to Ned, I could see Norris's face in silhouette, rising from the line of the edge of the coffin like a small mountain range off the horizon. Once I had found it, my eyes kept returning to it, no matter where else I looked around the room. I tried to focus on my shoes or the carpet or making my breathing match Ned's even, calm pacing, but my eyes would flick back to Norris's face without fail. I had to get out of there.

I watched everyone else around me, trying to judge the protocol. The service was open-ended, and so people could probably leave at any time. The few friends who had shown up had trickled out slowly after the last words of the short service, so now it was mostly family and funerary staff. I had never loved Norris—I had never really known him—but I couldn't be the first to leave the room, either, no matter how much I wanted to. I would have to wait until someone from the family left first. Preferably, I would be the third or the fourth out, not the first and definitely not the last.

I took my cues from Ned, as I usually did. In about half an hour, we were standing by the refreshment table, a freshly poured cup of coffee in my hands. In this room full of strangers I couldn't speak, but Ned was used to it and carried a conversation all on his own. I wouldn't dream of reaching for one of the thousands of baked goods spread all over the reception table, but he casually handed me a chocolate-chip cookie and a napkin. He still shocked me sometimes with his straight posture and the way he took what he wanted without any kind of hesitation. I nibbled my cookie, too uncomfortable to eat around all these strangers and the prospect of death in the next room. If it hadn't been for Ned, I would have loved to retreat to my stuffy attic bedroom and let the rest of these observances go on without me. Ned didn't know where I slept; he had never asked, and I had never shown him and I definitely wouldn't now.

When the reception began in earnest, and the whole family was gathered on the uncomfortable red sofas and armchairs scattered about the room, the conversation turned, surprisingly enough, to me. Speaking about me was the last thing people did, something I wanted to stay true.

It was Nola who started it. We had been sitting in relative silence, when Nola looked up suddenly from her coffee, and said, "You'll have to take Fawn with you."

There was a stunned silence. Then Dr Bertram crossed his legs, rearranging the crease on his trousers. "Take her with us?"

"She can't stay with me now. Not now that Norris is dead." All eyes were fixed on me, and though I knew Ned's would be sympathetic, I stared determinedly down at my cookie, too humiliated to look anywhere else.

"This may be a bit insensitive, Nola, but wasn't your main objection to her living with you in the first place that Norris was sick? That situation is resolved now, so what's the problem? I can't imagine that she eats much." Though I couldn't see her face, I realized that, for the first time in our lives, Nola and I were sharing the same thought. I traced my thumb along the rim of my coffee cup, grateful that my face never blushed, that somehow I never betrayed my mortification to the general public. I pretended I was Mireille, and that I was bored with the conversation, even though it was about my future here. I was eighteen now. They could kick me out. There wouldn't be any legal ramifications for that anymore.

"No, of course that's not insensitive," Nola said placatingly, making me wonder for the second time in an hour if she was actually sorry her husband had died. Maybe she just didn't want to make Dr Bertram angry, since he was her landlord and her boss and could throw her out of her house now that no one in the household was working for the school. Even through his illness, Norris had been the student counselor. Nola went on, "Fawn has special needs, Dr Bertram, and I've done all I can for her, but we haven't made any headway, have we Fawn?" Her hand reached out to give me a condescending pat on the knee, then another. _One, two. "_This is not a good time for me. Maybe the change of scene will do something for her." She didn't sound terribly worried. I didn't look at Ned, and he didn't say anything.

"And besides," came Mrs Bertram's dreamy voice from the other side of Dr Bertram, "you want to move into Mansfield too, don't you?"

This brought another stunned silence from the room, which only had the family in it now. Now I _did _steal a glance at Ned, who caught my eyes apprehensively, his eyebrows raised.

"We either of you ladies going to ask me my opinion on either of these arrangements, or were you just going to tell me?" The coldness in Dr Bertram's voice ran along my spine.

"Oh, sweetheart, it's not the end of the world. We have so much space, and this way we don't have to worry about where Norris's replacement will live." Norris, lying in the other room, and they were already talking about his replacement. I felt a surge of pity for the man I had never felt in his lifetime.

The Bertram family was not one for conversations behind closed doors. Everything was brokered like a business deal in a boardroom—all was hashed out in public, so everyone knew where everyone stood. As much as Dr Bertram himself intimidated me, I admired that kind of openness. In a half-hour's time, all the supporting details of the move from the small house to Mansfield had been decided, down to the day and the hour. I was ashamed that so much effort had been taken over deciding where I would live; I was an even bigger burden than I had been before, now that I was eighteen. I just didn't have anywhere else to go.

Ned and I walked back to Mansfield together, despite the heat that bore down on us from an open and fiercely blue sky. He hadn't been home since Christmas, and though we did speak on the phone sometimes, and sent letters back and forth, it wasn't the same as having his solid presence to rely on everyday. Now I wouldn't have to explain the things I was thinking or feeling. He would know without needing to ask. That was how it had always been between Ned and me.

"Are you alright?" he asked five minutes into our walk. "It's just that it looked like the funeral upset you."

I nodded. He looked at me expectantly. Speaking to Ned was easier than speaking to almost anyone, besides Billy, but I still needed to prepare myself to do it. I took a breath, then another, then said, "No one looked sad for him. I mean, I just wonder what that would be like for someone if they were, I don't know, watching their own funeral, you know? No one who's actually sorry they're gone?"

Ned put a comforting arm around my shoulders, and even though I was sweating and sticky, I leaned into him. "Were you sad he was dead?"

I paused. Then, in a guilty rush, "No, but I was sad that I _wasn't _sad, you know?"

He nodded. "That's how I feel, too."

We walked on in companionable silence. It never felt wrong to not talk to Ned, the way it was almost never hard to speak to him. Ned and I just _were_.

"I'm staying here for the summer," he said suddenly, and I whipped my head around to look at him, excited. "And since I'm taking a year off before grad school, we'll be seeing a lot more of each other. You all right with that?" I smiled and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. He chuckled. "You'll need someone to help you move, too, and give you the grand tour, and show you where we keep the milk and everything." Like his father, Ned hadn't discovered where I had been getting my meals for the past eight years. "I missed you, Fawn."

My throat unglued itself, without my needing to ask. "I missed you, too."

He smiled down at me, and I felt that familiar warmth in my stomach, the happiness at his approval, the gratitude for his friendship. Nonverbal signs and communication came easily for me, but I felt a little hitch in my smile today. I had almost been comparing myself to Norris, who no one would miss. Ned would miss me. Billy would miss me. Already I was better off than the man in the coffin, who his own sister and wife hadn't cried at his funeral.

"Fawn," Ned started, reaching into his pocket. I looked at him in surprise as he drew out a little box, wrapped in green paper and tied with a ribbon. He handed it to me with a simple smile, his serious eyes twinkling at me, "Happy Birthday."

I stopped to open it, my hands shaking for all the world as if I'd never gotten a present from him before. The excitement and stress of the day had gotten to me. I was overreacting to everything.

Inside the box was a small silver medallion on a braided bracelet. Simple, beautiful but not flashy. The medallion itself was stamped with my name, Fawn, in clean typeset. I looked at Ned, who was watching me cautiously, as if he were afraid I wouldn't like it. I smiled at him, a big, easy smile, and I didn't have to breathe before I held the bracelet out to him and said, "Help me put it on, please." He grinned, a grin that changed his face in the most shocking way, and bent to tie the bracelet on my wrist.

"You like it?" He didn't look up at me when he asked me.

"I love it. Thank you." Then I hugged him, easy as anything. He was solid as a rock, and I imagined that every time I hugged him I could draw some of that strength, that purpose, into myself. Not for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to be him, to see the world as he saw it. For as much as we had become best friends, I didn't think I would ever stop being in awe of him.

We walked the rest of the way home in silence, his arm slung around my shoulders, the heat baring down on our heads, and no breeze stirring in the trees. I felt the medallion dangle against my wrist and marveled that I suddenly didn't feel out of place.

* * *

><p>There were some things I didn't want Ned to see, and that made moving awkward for me. I arranged it so that all my clothes were packed in my small suitcase and a cardboard box and waiting at the bottom of the stairs when he arrived the next morning. I told him I wanted to help out as much as I could, since he'd be doing most of the heavy lifting bringing my things to the top habitable floor of Mansfield. Then, after everyone went to bed, I snuck back in the darkness to get my paintings, carrying each one, all one hundred, up the stairs with great care not to hit it against the stairs or the door frame. I had no where to put them but the back of my closet, but that would have to do for now. I didn't know why I was afraid of Ned seeing them—he never judged me—but I knew I would be embarrassed. So I spent that night hauling my work from one place to another, and no one noticed the next morning how tired I looked. Being ignored had its definite benefits.<p> 


	3. Dust and Rust

Being at the funeral made me miss a call from Billy. Ned's coming home was a godsend in so many other ways, but it was best because Ned lent me his laptop, and Billy could call me over video feed, so I got to see his face. I hadn't seen him since November, the last time Ned had been home, and in that time he'd gotten more tan, broader in the shoulders, and the sun in Afghanistan had bleached his light brown hair a sandy blond. When he smiled, it was with his entire body, and I was just as happy to see him.

"Happy birthday, Bananary!" He was the one person who still called me by some approximation of my real name. His accent was as thick as mine, and he wasn't self-conscious about it. Boston shown out of his skin.

"Billy!" I sang out, settling back in my chair, working the kinks out of my shoulders and back. "How are you?"

"Good. Safe. Got brought back to base here a couple weeks ago, and we've been recoupin', so basically I've been sleepin'. How was your birthday?" Yesterday seemed like a long time ago already.

"Norris died."

"What? Yesterday?" His brows knit together suddenly, his face all concern. "That's the worst birthday ever, Flan."

"No, not yesterday. He died Wednesday, but his funeral was yesterday."

Billy blinked. "But they still did somethin' for you, right? You're eighteen, that's a big deal."

I almost never lied, but Billy would get angry if I told him that no one but Ned had even remembered it was my birthday. I didn't like to see Billy mad, and it wouldn't do any good anyway, so I held up my bracelet to the screen, and said, "Yeah, just a little celebration. It would have been weird having a big party." Billy had never seen Mansfield, so there was no way he would guess that I was lying.

His face relaxed. "That's nice. Who gave that to you?"

"Ned. Just a present." This time my lie was much less convincing. Billy noticed, too.

"I'm gonna start gettin' jealous of Ned pretty soon if he keeps giving you big brother presents, you know. You're not forgettin' me, are you?" He was teasing me, but I still rushed to reassure him.

"No! Ned's not my brother, Billy. He's not you." My accent had gotten stronger, and now my face felt hot. Even though I didn't ever blush, I felt like Billy could see right through me, and I felt bizarre for even being uncomfortable in the first place. We hadn't talked about anything out of the ordinary for us. I reached for my glass of water, the one I'd dared to sneak down to the kitchen and get just minutes ago, and sipped it to cover my awkwardness.

But Billy had moved on to the next subject. "I'm gettin' leave in a month or so. You think you can see me then?" He was suddenly very serious.

So was I. "Maybe we could meet somewhere? I could take the bus up to Boston, maybe." My heart quailed at the thought of being on the bus, so full of strangers, so foreign to me, but I would do anything to see Billy. I hadn't seen him in person since I was twelve.

"You're not gonna invite me to Mansfield? I can behave myself around the muckity-mucks, you know." His tone was light, but I still felt like he was testing me. I took a breath, and said "I don't know what's going on in a month. I'll ask them if it's okay."

Billy stared at me for a second, then nodded his head, apparently satisfied with my answer. We moved on to talk about other things, and I wrestled down a strange feeling of panic. To have Billy be disappointed in me would be a million times worse than anything Nola or Mireille could ever dream of saying to me.

* * *

><p>By the time a week had passed after the funeral, the entire family had given up on seeing Tom. It had been a forgone conclusion-a pretty sad forgone conclusion-that he wouldn't show up for Norris's service, but we all hoped that he would at least get swept in one afternoon by some southerly breeze, and Mrs Bertram's mind would be put at ease for at least a week or usually never it let it go beyond a couple days of when he was supposed to arrive, and he was always in one piece, if sometimes a little worse for wear. Seven days had passed, though, with no Tom and no excuse for Tom's absence, and Mrs Betram was beside herself.<p>

Life went on. Every morning after sneaking down to breakfast, a habit I couldn't get rid of no matter how illogical it seemed, I would go to the shed and grab the old bike that had once belonged to Mireille, and step out into the early morning for a ride. With no one around to see me or comment, I barrelled down the long drive as fast as I could before surfing the dip in the hill as the drive met the lane. If I planned it right I could coast half way to town without needing to pedal. The ride back up the hill was significantly more challenging.

The bike was rusty in places, and the holder for the water bottle was broken, and it was a little big for me, but the handles were perfectly shaped for my hands, and I knew every little imperfection intimately. As I threw my leg across it, I looked out over the sweeping lawn, turned dusty grey-blue in the morning light, and stopped, frozen.

A man was lying on the ground, curled up beneath a crumpled suit coat.

The bike didn't have a kickstand. I laid it gently on the ground, then crept closer to the figure on the drive, terrified he was dead, terrified he'd be conscious, and completely uncertain of what I was going to do in either case.

As I got closer, though, aspects of him became familiar. The cut of his suit, the green socks he wore, the lazy shine of his shoe underneath the dust. Then his ear, his sideburns, his facial structure. It was Tom who was passed out on the drive. Tom who may have arrived at any time last night, too drunk to do anything more than sleep where he lay. At least it was summer. At least he hadn't had to sleep in the snow.

But now I was faced with a dilemma. Tom was twice my size and half that again, and drunk, and grumpy, and any attempt we could make to enter the house quietly was quite likely doomed to failure. On the other hand, I didn't think his mother could stand seeing him like this, nor did I relish the backlash that would come from Dr Bertram. I could ride around him, I supposed, but that wouldn't be the right thing to do.

I actually sat there for ten minutes before I remembered the most obvious option. Ned. Ned was strong enough to carry Tom, especially with me helping, and he was discreet, and he was protective of his brother. Ned. Perfect.

I ran. I ran as fast and as quietly as I could, so that even my breathing was as low as possible. I went up the back steps as well, the carpeted spiral staircase that had once been used only by servants and was now a shortcut from the kitchen. Ned was one floor below me, and my feet made no sound on the carpeting outside his room, which was not so very far from Dr and Mrs Bertram's room.

I knocked quietly, hoping he'd wake up. When he didn't I let myself in, slipping around the door and tiptoeing to his bed. He was sleeping on his back, one arm thrown over his head, his breathing deep and peaceful. Even in my urgency, I stopped for a moment to watch him sleep, a wave of affection sweeping over me for my best friend. The only way I had ever looked at him had been at the casual, everyday level, and then I was sure that my gaze was less direct than most. He was so collected in his waking life that he hardly seemed different sleeping, though I noticed now as I had never done that slight tightness around his mouth, the minuscule creasing of his forehead. Sleeping, he was a study in serenity. His thick, light brown hair was tousled from his pillow, and his t-shirt was rucked up a little at the waist, exposing a few inches of the smooth plane of his stomach. I didn't want to wake him, not when he was so at peace, but there was no one else.

I sat on the edge of his bed, and touched his arm. "Ned. Wake up."

And just like that, his eyes opened, and he looked at me, alert. "Fawn? What's wrong?" I had never come to his room like this before. He sat up, reaching out toward me. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," I said, raising my hands to reassure him. His own hands fell back down to his knees. "It's not me. Tom's passed out on the driveway, and I need your help to carry him in."

Ned's serious grey eyes considered this for a moment, and then he sighed. "Okay. Let's go."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. "Show me where he is." He seemed abrupt and somewhat annoyed; the crease in his forehead was more pronounced.

"I'm sorry..." I started. He cut me off. "It's fine, Fawn. You have nothing to be sorry about." He stretched briefly, his body in his t-shirt and boxers silhouetted against the lightening sky from the window. He brought his hands down to put his messy hair in some kind of order, and for the first time I felt like I'd invaded something of his, the altar of some morning ritual or the peace that proceeded each of his days. I looked up at him, against the morning light, as he looked down at me from his perch on the bed, and for a moment we didn't speak. Then, suddenly, ridiculously, I found the silence unbearable, and I stood up.

"You're right. Let's go."

We made our way down the small staircase and stole quietly out the side door, leaving it open to the humid morning air. Ned was good at being quiet, too, but he let out a small sound like a cough when Tom's slumped form came into view. Getting him up proved to be easy, with Ned wordlessly lifting Tom's broad torso, taking the brunt of the weight while I held his legs. Our way back upstairs, to where Tom's room was, right next door to his parents', was punctuated by brief respites. We didn't have long before people began to wake up.

Once Tom was on the bed, I let go of his legs, and was prepared to leave him altogether, but a word from Ned stopped me. He bent down and began untying Tom's shoes, lifting them off his feet and placing them on the floor with care, side by side. Then his socks, which Ned rolled together and put in the hamper in the corner. He called me over to help him rid Tom of his damp, dusty suit coat, brushing it off, hanging it over the chair back. That morning was strange; while I watched Ned and the tender, precise care he gave his older brother, I felt as if I were watching a stranger, someone whose goodness was unknown to me. I watched him, and I admired him, and the sudden tenseness I felt in my chest took me by surprise.

Ned turned to look at me, and without a word I followed him out of the door, closing it behind me. At his own door, we stopped again, just long enough for him to put his hand gently on my upper arm and smile at me. I found myself hot and uncomfortable, and after all this time looking at him I was embarrassed by his nearness. But I smiled and shrugged, and walked back upstairs to my room, my morning bike ride long forgotten.


	4. The First People

In those days I lived in my own head most of all. It was worst when Ned wasn't there, because then I never really talked to anyone, and my thoughts would wander away from the conversations at lunch and dinner and any other time I felt obligated to spend time with the family. Now that I was living with the Bertrams, my obligations were greater, but the conversations were better. Aunt Nola used to ask me questions directly when she was bored, fixing me with her stare, watching as I faltered, flushed, and stayed silent. I think it gave her a lot of satisfaction to see me struggle. In the beginning, when I was still desperate to prove myself, desperate to not be the freak she knew I was, I would open my mouth and try to force the words out, though we both knew they wouldn't come. As I got older, and gave up hope of being normal, I had stopped giving her that show, but I still flushed with humiliation, keeping my eyes down. I never learned how not to let it bother me.

I know that my wandering attention was cause for frustration. It also made it abundantly clear, had it not already been so, that I was simple and dull, too simple to pay attention to the most basic conversation. In Mansfield, I saw Dr Bertram's eyes flash with annoyance whenever I was pulled out of my reverie to pay attention to something, even though that didn't happen very often. The Bertrams didn't demand as much as Aunt Nola did. Or at least, they didn't demand the same things that Nola did.

I found sitting with Mrs Bertram very calming. Where I had run away from Nola's company, I found myself seeking Mrs Bertram's when Ned's wasn't available. Except for her dreamy voice and unaddressed Valium addiction, in fact, she reminded me of Ned. much the way that Tom's imperious anger and inherent dark charm reminded me of Dr Bertram. Mrs Bertram didn't ask me questions I couldn't answer with a nod or a shake of my head, didn't make jokes I had to answer with anything but a smile or a shrug. She never commented when I wandered away from the conversation, just touched my hand softly when she had something for me to see. Dr Bertram scared me, sometimes, with his moods. If she had any moods but patient contentedness, Mrs Bertram never showed it. They said she had frayed nerves. I could have understood that, if I had ever seen it.

Ned adored his mother. Sometimes in my search of him I would end up sitting with both of them in the parlor, the one I'd been thrown into unceremoniously on my first day. Mrs Bertram liked to knit, said idle hands were the devil's playground. I didn't know whether she was joking or not.

We were in that parlor together, later the same day I had found Tom. The man himself had woken up grumpy and hungover at around noon, had given everyone a cursory kiss on the cheek or a handshake, and had retired to his room to sleep off the ill effects of the night before. I could see how disappointed Ned was that Tom didn't seek him out to talk. I saw that same disappointment every time Tom came home, when he would seek out everyone but Ned to spend time with. Ned was the most understanding person I knew, but this one thing he struggled with. Maybe sought refuge in his mother's company, the way I did, except I couldn't believe that Ned needed to hide from anything.

I was holding the wool Mrs Bertram was making into a yarn ball-wrapped around the back of my hands like a failed Cat's Cradle. Ned was on the other couch, writing something in the latest of his blank books. I had never asked what he wrote, and he had never told me. I decided that made us even, since I had never told him about my paintings.

We had been quiet for some time when Mrs Bertram said, in her sleepy little voice, "Mireille found that bike she used to ride around on. She wants to take it to the bike shop downtown to get it fixed up." I stared resolutely down at my hands, though they quivered. I had left that bike out on the driveway. It was my fault, because if she hadn't seen it, she never would have wanted it back.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Ned put his book down. "She hasn't ridden that bike in years."

"I know, but your father will be glad she wants it now. She made enough of a fuss about getting one when she was younger."

"Mom, you know Fawn's been using that bike for a while now." I flashed him a look that had nothing to do with his tone, which was polite and gentle, and everything to do with the sudden panic I felt that Mireille might find out that I wanted it. My gorge rose at anyone knowing what I wanted or what I would have like. I couldn't explain it; it was irrational.

Ned caught my eye, but he didn't seem to acknowledge my fear. Mrs Bertram blinked slowly, this new development perturbing her. "I haven't seen Fawn ride it very often, sweetheart. And it _is _Mireille's bike after all."

"What if Fawn wants to go into town? Or just wants to get some exercise?" I was so humiliated now that I turned my eyes away from him, to my lap, to the texture of my jeans, to the dye of the fabric.

"I'm sure she can borrow the bike from Mireille any time she wants it," Mrs Bertram said. Ned's silence matched my own. That was different. That was too different. Asking Mireille for permission meant _asking_ Mireille something, meant talking to Mireille at all, meant going near her and her hostile stare. I couldn't, I could _not_. I paid attention to my breathing, but I still felt strangled. I would never ride that bike again, and so I would never ride any bike again. I could live with that. That didn't stop the prickle of tears behind my eyes, when I thought about my morning rides, or the times when I could sneak out during the day when no one was home and no one was watching me. I blinked once, twice, angry at myself, at my own stupidity, my own weakness. Why couldn't I just _say_something?

Ned came to rescue me from my thoughts. "That's not the same, Mom. What about when Mireille's gone? Or if Mireille takes her bike out when Fawn wants to go out? I think Fawn needs her own bike."

"You know your father's trying not to spend any more unnecessary money this year, Ned." The voice that came out of Mrs Bertram was almost sharp-completely different from the one I was used to. In spite of myself, I looked at her, at the clarity in her once-dreamy face. I hadn't given her the credit of knowing what was going on. Maybe that had been a mistake.

Ned was unfazed. "Then take my old bike. It's still in great condition, and I don't use it anymore. It's too big for Fawn, but we can exchange it for a smaller one. As long as you can help with the upkeep if anything happens to hers."

He was exacting a promise I would never have dared to ask for. I already lived under their roof and ate their food when they had no legal obligation to feed or house me. Wasn't that enough without getting them to pay for the things I didn't need, whatever I might feel about them?

The sharpness was gone from Mrs Bertram's voice, and it was as sweet and gentle as it had ever been. "If that's what you want, darling, then I don't see why not. Just make sure you tell your father before he finds out some other way."

My heart was so swollen with pride and gratitude that I couldn't look at Ned. Was there ever, ever, _ever _in this world a better friend, anyone more selfless and perfect? I thought I would die of happiness, or faint from the complete love I felt for him, my only friend, my confidante.

If we could just stay like that, I thought, I would never want anything else again.

* * *

><p>Dr Bertram was rich and lived in a big house, but his main source of income was not from the University, which paid what he called "a pittance." He was the fourth in line of the BerTech dynasty, which over the years had changed its name and its logo but never its business, which was the design and manufacturing of pharmaceuticals. The recession and resulting stagnation of the world economy had done nothing for his business, and the cash flow problem was getting to be a real problem, especially with Ned and Julia to put through the rest of their careers in higher education, Mireille's wedding to pay for, and the upkeep of the house and the Bertram family lifestyle.<p>

Then, of course, there was the little matter of Tom's bender, which had managed to accumulate over $750,000 worth of damages in just ten days. The shouting I could hear from the parlor when Dr Bertram came home to find Tom awake and watching TV in his boxers like nothing had happened was perhaps some of the worst Dr Bertram had done in his life so far, and even though I couldn't pick out the individual words, just the tone made my heart quail.

I was in the kitchen. Some nights when I couldn't sleep, I would go down to the kitchen and sit on one of the stools at the island and stay there until I was tired enough to rest my eyes. That kitchen was still my best escape, even though I had almost nothing to run _from_now. I was glad, though, that I was so far away from the shouting. I had dared to make myself a cup of hot milk on an extravagant whim, and now I paid my full attention to that.

After a while, the shouting stopped, and what followed next was a dialogue in slamming doors. I stayed where I was, hoping to wait it out before going upstairs, but the unmistakable drum of feet on the spiral staircase soon revealed Tom, clad in the dusty remnants of last night's misadventures, his hair wet from a shower and swept off his forehead, shoes in hand. His tie was undone, his shirt untucked, and he himself was unprepared to see me, if the look on his face was any judge.

"Fawn, shit! You scared the hell out of me." I smiled my shy little smile at him, since he didn't intimidate me half as much as his father did. I also couldn't imagine scaring anyone, really, so the idea itself was novel to me.

He walked over to sit across the island from me and pull on his socks. "What are you still doing up?"

I raised my eyebrows at him and pointed to the ceiling. Tom looked up ruefully, then back down at his feet, the lock of hair falling heavily over his forehead. He looked so much like Ned.

"Yeah, I bet that was a stunner, huh? Old man won't be happy til I'm buried up to my neck in AIDS orphans and test patients, sad as hell and in love with my job." His tone wasn't playful now, and a harsh bitterness crept in. I looked at him in silence as he struggled to pull on his shoes. Uneasy with the silence, he finally looked up at me.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, Fawn, okay? What do you want from me?" I shook my head. "You want me to be what they want me to be, don't you? Give you a little peace around here? That's what you all want, isn't it, you and Mom and Julia and Mireille. And Ned." The last name was said with such rage that I stared at him in astonishment.

"Don't like me saying things about Ned, huh?" Tom's voice had grown less shaky, less emotional, but had dipped to a cold, sardonic tone that I didn't like, either. "Too. Fucking. Bad."

I looked down at the table, at my hands cupped around my lukewarm milk, then down to my left where someone had left a box of cereal. Oatmeal Squares. On an impulse, I grabbed the box, then lifted it to Tom, who had managed to tie his shoes and was looking down at his hands, folded on the table. I snuck the box into his line of vision and he looked up. He took a moment to register what was happening, then smiled at my peace offering. He snuck his hand into the top of the box and emerged with a handful of cereal, lifting the first square to his lips.

"You're all right, kid."

We sat there in silence together, the first time I had spent time with Tom alone since I was twelve. I was surprised at how it didn't scare me.

On his fifth handful, Tom said, "I'm leaving." I flashed a look over his suit, and he read it because he said, "No, not now. This was...Dad's going to Africa. There's a BerTech office, and...well, he's taking me with him. To make something of me." I ran my thumbs over my hands, watching him.

"I don't know what the hell he wants from me. Actually, yes, actually I do know what he wants, but it's not going to happen. No fucking way in hell is that happening. So. Well, I guess we'll see. If I come back spouting things about cost-benefit and net gains and how 'morality is an expensive grey area' just know that they pulled some voodoo shit on my brain and that I'm a man under the influence. Think you can handle that?"

I watched him. He looked up, saw me, and sighed in exasperation. "Of course you can handle that. Look at you. It's like nothing touches you. You're just in your little LaLa land over there. Do you even understand what I'm saying to you?"

I blushed with embarrassment, and nodded. Tom looked at me, then away, then back, like he'd never seen anything like me before in his life. "Jesus. And now I've offended you. Look, I'm sorry, okay, it's just that I never really know what's going on in your head. You could be plotting to kill me for all I know. You could be planning on burning the house down. Well. We all know who you'd save in a fire."

My brow furrowed, I stared at him, at his hands ranging all over the table to smooth the wood over and over, to tap a rhythmic pattern on the knots; at him shifting his shoulders in his once-immaculate suit, for all the world as if it didn't fit him right in the shoulders. I thought I had never seen anyone in so much distress before in my life. As sheltered as my life had been, I had seen my fair share of despair, but something about Tom Bertram took my breath away. I wondered for the first time in my life whether his parents knew what they were doing to him. That was the first time I had ever dared to have a critical thought of the Bertrams.

He shrugged his shoulders and made to stand up, but I found that I couldn't let him leave without doing something. I waved my hand in front of his face and gestured to the white board on the refrigerator, which was where people wrote things they wanted from the supermarket. I took the red pen and, feeling daring, erased Mireille's handwritten "KEFIR," to write in its place "It's going to be okay."

Tom looked from the board to me and back, then smiled a sad, crooked smile. He reached out a hand and patted me on the head, for all the world like an adorable dog who followed him home. He reached past me to get the cereal box and proffered it to me much the way I'd done to him. I hesitated, since giving him his own cereal had seemed acceptable, whereas taking it from the family felt like stealing on my part. He shook the box in front of me and slowly, slowly, I reached my hand inside and grabbed small handful. He set the box down and turned to walk back up the stairs only a third as quickly as he'd come down them. I could see in the way he carried himself that he was defeated.

Not knowing what else to do, I sat in the kitchen, slowly eating the handful of cereal, feeling for all the world as if it were the Forbidden Fruit.

* * *

><p>AN: I really like reviews. They help me get to the next chapter. Just sayin'.


	5. Beautiful Strangers

The day Dr Bertram left was the day that everything really started. We lined up outside after lunch to say goodbye. Tom was pale and quiet; I wasn't the only one who noticed. He hugged his mother and sisters, then turned to Ned. I saw that Ned was hoping for a hug as well, and he probably would have settled for a pat on the shoulder, but Tom stuck out his hand in the most formal, impersonal way, and Ned had no option but to shake it. Tom let go immediately; whatever Ned had wanted to say died on his lips. I watched him try not to be disappointed, try to understand, and I felt my heart break for him.

I fully expected both Dr Bertram and Tom to skip right over me, but Tom caught me in a bear hug that crushed the breath out of me, then dropped me back on my feet. I barely had time to get over the shock of the embrace when Dr Bertram turned to me, fixed me with his gaze and said, "Fawn. I think I can count on you not to create any havoc."

I blushed and nodded. Mireille snorted quietly.

He turned away, then turned back. "Your brother is on leave in a few weeks," I glanced at Ned, who didn't meet my eyes. "Invite him here when he gets back. We'll be glad to have him."

I felt my heart soar in my chest, and for the first time in my life, I beamed up at Dr Bertram. The word, when it came out, came unbidden: "Really?"

He blinked. I could see Ned's smile from the corner of my eye-a wide, triumphant kind of smile. Dr Bertram lowered his chin, lowered his eyebrows, and said, "Yes. Really. Maybe he was hoping you'd improved over all this time. He'll have to make do with you as you are." I bit my lip, properly put in my place. Only when the two men had gotten into the car and driven halfway down the drive did I glance up at Ned, who looked at me apologetically. I turned away first.

* * *

><p>It was supposed to be a big sigh of relief, Dr Bertram leaving. And, for a few days, it was clear that we all felt a little more relaxed with him gone, since with him at home we adhered to a strict schedule of mealtimes, with everything that came with it-aperitifs before dinner, coffee and conversation afterwards, getting changed for the meal, table settings, set menus. Dr Bertram's family had been French, so it was said, but I think that he liked to have his family around him looking neat and proper.<p>

Mireille took to sleeping later. Julia came down in her pajamas, unshowered. Rush, Mireille's beefy billionaire fiance, stopped wearing collared shirts and started strutting around in tighter t-shirts to show off his biceps. Ned brought reading to the table. Mrs Bertram took her breakfast in her room. Aunt Nola sipped a cup of coffee at around eleven o'clock. I was the only one who didn't change my routine, but gone was the fear that I'd be discovered. I don't know why it had seemed to me at the time that Dr Bertram was more likely than Aunt Nola to count the individual number of Cheerios or slices of bread we had in the house and decide that I was taking more than my fair share, but I started to allow myself small freedoms in my early-morning meals. I ate toast. I put butter on it, or jam, or both. I inspected the drawer of teas and imagined myself drinking a new cup every day. I opened up cabinets I had considered taboo for years, finding mugs with silly expressions on them- things I had never seen in the dining room- or drink stirrers in a flamingo container, or the silver drawer with its velvet lining. My favorite room had hiding places, nooks, crannies, and secrets. I don't know why I loved that so much, but I did.

The days were turning from sticky and hot to sunny and fair, the perfect harbigner of fall. Further north, the trees would be turning fantastic colors of red, orange, and golden yellow in only a few weeks. In Connecticut we had a little longer to wait. The students at the University would be starting soon. Norris's replacement would be arriving.

The day that Mary and Henry arrived was the day that Ned and I raced home from town. Ned had brought in my new bike one day, triumphantly. It was beautiful, and I even through my near-silent thank-you, I knew why he hadn't asked me to go shopping with him-I never would have agreed to a bike this nice. It was bright red, with a retro wheel cover and black leather handlebars. A jaunty basket and a bell completed the look, which left me nearly delirious with happiness. Ned had taken the opportunity to get a new bike for himself, as well. "So you can show me how it's done," he'd said. He waved away all of my protests, since my bike hadn't saved anyone any money, the way Ned had proposed it would.

It made me happy think that I was a better biker than Ned, even though I felt a little ashamed of that happiness. Ned was game for a challenge, but I had been biking up that hill every morning for the past four years, so on our first ride back up I left him far behind, huffing and puffing and red in the face. Even though it was Ned, and I knew he wouldn't mind me beating him by so much, I still waited a bit at the gate to let him catch up with me before setting out again, zooming off down the drive with his chuckle in my ears. He'd never ridden with me, so he'd never seen me this happy.

We were relaxing on the grass when the car drove up. Ned was lying on his back, spread out full length on the grass, eyes gazing up at the sky. I was sitting a bit more demurely, leaning back on my hands, and so I was the one who saw them first.

Dr Grant was short and greying, with face that looked like it had been beaten into shape with a shovel, but he was muscular with it. His wife was taller, and though she wasn't terribly pretty she had the kindness in her eyes as her husband, though I wouldn't know that yet. The ride from Los Angeles had been long, towing their things behind them, and so Mary and Henry, Mrs Grant's much younger half brother and sister, stumbled out unceremoniously from the backseat as soon as they could. We had heard all of their names before, of course.

Ned propped himself up on his elbows. "So that's them." He sounded more resigned than intrigued. I looked at him, squinting from the sun behind his head.

"Don't you want to meet them?"

He sighed, then shrugged. "I guess it would be rude not to." That wasn't what I'd meant, and maybe he knew it. I turned back silently, watching Dr Grant stretch his back, then open the trunk of the car and start pulling out suitcases. Mary, leaning against the side, caught sight of us first and waved. I raised a hand and waved back. Distance was easy.

Ned sighed again, and got to his feet. He seemed tired lately. He looked down at me, sitting unmoving on the grass. "Are you coming?"

I hesitated, sorely tempted. I wanted to meet them so badly; it had been a long time since someone new had come to Mansfield, and I was desperately curious. On the other hand, there was the fact that I would never be able to introduce myself to them like a normal person. I didn't want Ned to have to explain me or cover for me-he had enough to deal with. So I shook my head, saying "No, you go ahead. I'll meet them later," and trying to sound nonchalant. Either I was unconvincing or I should never have tried to convince him, because he sent a look to me that said simply _gotcha_, but turned and walked to greet the strangers. I watched after him for a moment, then picked myself, picked up my bike, and walked around to the shed where it was kept. I would have all the time in the world to meet them. I figured meeting them half and hour earlier wouldn't make any difference.

* * *

><p>Mary and Henry were two exceptionally ordinary names for two deeply complex people. When Nola finally called me in to the parlor before dinner, I could feel the way everyone in the room, including Ned, was centered around the two of them, hanging on their every word. I had forgotten that everyone else had been here for a month; they must have wanted outside company as well. We might have been in the Saharah, and the Crawford's might have been life-saving water; everyone was drinking in as much as they could hold.<p>

And they were no less curious about me. When the door closed behind me, and I slunk into the room as usual, I saw Mary and Henry's eyes on me expectantly, smiling politely, looking from me to the rest of the room and back again. I could have introduced myself, _should_have introduced myself, but I didn't, and Mary's brow knit in confusion.

She was beautiful-possibly the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. It was a fierce kind of beauty: a long, angular jaw, high cheek bones, thick, well-shaped dark brows, and glossy, dark-blond hair. Her face looked like it settled into a smile more often than not, and overall she seemed carefree, and happy, and profound. Except for his eyes, her brother looked in no way related to her. His hair was reddish brown, his skin paler with a dusting of freckles over the nose and cheeks. He wasn't bad to look at, but he wasn't what I'd call handsome either. He looked as bemused as Mary did, but no one stepped up to introduce me, and so they flicked their eyes back to the conversation, then to me, nonplussed.

"...I've never been, but I hear it's wonderful," Mireille was saying, one hand casually dragging across her collarbone. She was vain about her collarbone-she said it was her best feature.

Henry was relaxed into his chair, for all the world like he'd lived here his entire life, like we'd been best friends since childhood. "Fabulous. Never been to the East Coast, myself, actually, so this should be an adventure. I'm interested in exploring your famous Puritan streak for myself." He cocked a smile at both Mireille and Julia in their turn, and in their turn both Mireille and Julia swooned but tried not to show it. He knew what he was doing, that was certain.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Don't listen to him, ladies. Henry is the worst womanizer I have met in my entire life, no joke. Amelia," and here she turned to cast a fond look over Mrs Grant, "keeps trying to set him up with beautiful, interesting women, and all he does is break their hearts. I was afraid we'd have girls flinging themselves off roofs when we announced we were moving out here, and we almost did, actually."

There was a chuckle from around the room. It had been meant as a joke, and everyone took it as such, but I wondered about the women Mary was joking about, about how they'd felt. If I had ever had the shadow of attraction to him, I would have been fairly warned off. Mireille and Julia, however, looked even more interested. I would never, never understand that, I thought.

It was only then that I thought to look at Ned. Important as he was to me, I took it almost as a matter of course that we would agree on everything. Looking at him now, I saw the way his eyes were trained on Mary's face, moving when she moved, turning when she turned. His face remained the polite, semi-open mask it normally was in new company, but I noticed the tension in his shoulders that I hadn't seen before. Something was bothering him.

But then just as I was getting really concerned, he turned to me and sent me a small smile. I smiled back at him before he turned back to the general conversation, which I settled in to watch.

It was almost like a sport. If I had been included, or if I had included myself, maybe I wouldn't have noticed so much. Instead, my watching from the sidelines meant I could see more. Mireille and Julia were both fascinated by Henry Crawford, both desperate to be the most interesting, and both entirely aware of the threat the other posed. It looked to me that Henry acknowledged their competition, and that it amused him. Rush, the dairy farm billionaire whom I'd always considered intensely dim, was watching Mireille flirt with Henry with a deepening scowl on his face. He saw enough to see what was going on.

For her part, Aunt Nola was in the thick of it. Now that Mireille, her obvious favorite, was paired off, Nola was committed to Julia's love life, in increasingly strident ways. Right now, she was perched on the edge of her seat, chiming in whenever she thought Julia said something witty or cute. I had always drifted away from conversations Nola dominated before-I had never seen her like this. So I watched, fascinated, and slowly I began to realize that she didn't see what was actually going on. She didn't realize that Mireille was interested, really genuinely interested, in Henry, and that Henry, bit by bit, was turning toward her. Julia had lost.  
>Mary sighed explosively, and flipped her hair back from her face, its lush thickness falling through her hands in a golden waterfall. Her beauty seemed unconscious, so maybe she didn't know anything about it, or maybe she knew and didn't care. In her, at least, I saw more potential than her brother.<p>

But then, I thought, looking at Ned as he sat tensely in his chair, perhaps I wasn't the only one who did. That was the moment I first felt real jealousy, and it sank down into me, making me sick with confusion. There was no reason I should feel jealous. I had no right to feel jealous, and there was nothing to be jealous about. I felt ill and dirty and old.

And it was only just beginning.

* * *

><p>AN: I need a beta. Anyone interested?


	6. Bathed in Light

Two mornings later, I stumbled on Dr Grant. It was early, even earlier than I was used to, but I hadn't been able to sleep and so I'd gone outside to ease my boredom. Dr Grant was on the walkway between the little house and Mansfield proper, dressed in a track suit and taking a moment to stretch his body.

I was so surprised to see him I think I let out a small "Oh," as I stopped abruptly. He looked up at me and smiled, then straightened up and began rotating his shoulders.

"Good morning. Fawn, isn't it?"

I nodded, throwing him a small polite smile. He studied me, moving his arms back and forth and warming up his torso. "Didn't mean to startle you. I must look like a Disney villain in the morning, even if my wife says it's the best time of day for me. But I think," he said, conspiratorially, "she's just saying that so I'll think I actually have a best time of day. She's in love with me, you see."

The more he spoke, the further and further my eyebrows climbed up my forehead. I couldn't help myself-he was being ridiculous, and he knew it. He winked at me, said, "Do you normally get up this early?"

I nodded, shrugging.

"Problems sleeping?" His voice was less casual now, and I looked at him a moment before shrugging again.

"Does this happen a lot?"

He was getting very personal. I could feel a frown growing on my brow. I shrugged.

"Fawn, please don't misunderstand me. I'm not trying to intrude, here, but I want you to know that I've helped a few patients like you, and if you let me...Of course, all those patients were a lot younger than you, but I think the basic principles are the same. After all, kids are people, too." He smiled at me again, his eyes searching my face.

I met his gaze, not saying anything, not moving.

"Yes," he went on, not taking his eyes off my face, "you look like you'd have so much to say if people would only listen. I'd love to hear it when it does happen. Will you think about what I'm saying?" He brought his head back, his voice now a perfect example of casual professionalism.

I could have walked away, or shaken my head, because he was intruding, no matter what he said about not wanting to. But then I thought about the way Henry and Mary had looked at me, the expectation and the bemusement, and finally the way they'd ignored me just like everyone else. I had thought that I had been happy with just Ned, but now I wasn't so sure. Despite my brief moment of jealousy, which I'd written off as fatigue or confusion or petulance, I had longed to be normal for them, to be able to introduce myself, at least. Then Ned and everyone else wouldn't have to babysit me.

But I thought about Aunt Nola's face if I had joined in the conversation. And then I thought about Mireille's face, and my heart quailed. I was confused. And being confused, I couldn't decide against Dr Grant's offer all together, and I didn't want to seem rude either, so I nodded.

"Yes? Yes, you'll think about it?" He looked so happy, though he held his composure, that I couldn't help smiling. I nodded again.

"Great. That's great! Well," he said, gesturing to the path. "I guess I'd better get off on my little jaunt here, or I'll just be tempted to pretend I'll go later and then the whole day will be thrown off. See you soon?"

I smiled and nodded. I was getting tired of nodding.

"Perfect. Have a great day, Fawn." He set off, power walking quickly until he rounded the corner and was gone.

I went back to bed, suddenly exhausted by the prospect of being able to speak again. I dreamed I was a piggy bank, and coins spilled from my mouth and into Henry Crawford's hands, and I woke up two hours later in a sweat.

Nothing was easy to understand.

* * *

><p>I think most of my memories of Mary Crawford are unfair to her, especially as she was at the beginning. Mansfield was so set apart from everywhere else that anyone coming to visit was interesting, and Mary had descended on us like a burst of light, or one of the fairies from Fantasia, who walk on water and turn it into a symphony of color. Most of what she did later on was by design, but I think that at the beginning we got to see her the way she really was without trying: complex but uncomplicated, sociable, airy, mischievous, and casually kind.<p>

Ned was as carefully polite to her as he was to everyone else, and so for a few days he kept his distance and I told myself that I had been wrong about what I'd seen on that first day. I felt too guilty over being jealous, and too disturbed by my own jealousy, to read the signs very well. And anyway, at that time I was too naive to see things the way they were.

In the afternoon after Dr Grant spoke to me on the path, Ned came to my room for the first time. I was surprised-we'd always treated each others' spaces as sacred-but I let him in. My room was about half the size of his, and stuffier, but he sat on one of the ancient chairs while I crossed my legs awkwardly on the bed. For awhile neither of us spoke, and then Ned, in careful study of his interlocked fingers, said, "What do you think of the Crawfords?"

I blinked. Whatever I had been expecting, it hadn't been that. "Oh, well...what do you think of them?" Was my stupid reply. He smiled wryly at me.

"I asked you first."

I took a breath. "Well, I don't know, really. I mean, I haven't been around them as much as you have."

I was stalling, and he knew it. He frowned in amused bewilderment. "You have to have some kind of first impressions of them. I know you."

I blushed, but I had no idea why. "I think they're nice, and definitely smart, and friendly. They seem like they know a lot about everything."

"But?"

"But...I, well, I mean, I don't know, Ned. I haven't talked to them. I mean, they've never talked to me, and I guess I haven't seen enough of them to make a better opinion than that, that's all. I don't want to judge them without knowing them."

He was watching me gravely, clearly unsatisfied, but he nodded finally. "That's probably a wise stance to take."

How hard would it have been to just tell him what I thought? How hard would that have been, really? But I didn't want to admit the things that I'd thought, not even to him, not even to myself.  
>"What do you think?" I asked him, hoping he'd tell me. But I had set a bad example, because he shrugged and looked out the window.<p>

"Same as you, I guess. I'm still trying to figure them out."

We lapsed into silence again. I stared down miserably at my toes where they poked out from under my knees.

This time it was I who broke the silence. "Dr Grant wants to teach me how to talk."

Ned looked back at me, brow knit. "You already know how to talk."

"No, I mean...I mean he wants to help me get better at speaking in public. Really better, not just sort of better. But I don't know," I said, because a wide smile was threatening to break out on Ned's face, and I didn't want him to get too excited just yet.

"What don't you know?"

"Just...I don't know if can be in therapy if I can't even talk to my therapist." I shrugged. I felt small, dysfunctional, awkward, and strangely I didn't like showing Ned how I felt, even though I told Ned everything.

"Fawn, look," Ned leaned forward, so that his face was only a foot or so from mine. His eyes were lit with excitement, "Look. I know this is intimidating, but he's a good man, and this could be the best thing for you. You're not in Aunt Nola's house," he went on, ticking off on his fingers, "you've got me here to help you with your exercises, you've got Billy coming home on leave. This could be the best summer for you. You owe it to yourself to try." He looked so earnest, I had to smile at him. He smelled like soap, and he was so close and suddenly, crazily, I was struck by the urge to kiss him. I looked away from him, disturbed, and ran my fingers over my bedspread, pressing my lips together. "I'll think about it," was all I said.

"You should." I heard him get up from his chair, and glanced at him as he walked to my window, looking down on the front lawn. Say what you could about my room, my view was fantastic.

There was silence between us again, and I tried to coax my heart to stop thumping, and turn my mind away from the dangerous, completely insane idea of kissing Ned. Where the hell was my mind going?

"I do like them, though," came Ned's voice. I turned to look at him, even though the sound of his voice made me shivver.

"Who?"

"The Crawfords. I don't know them, but I like them." He was looking down from my window onto the lawn in front of the house. Unable to bear not being able to see what he could see, I stood up and went to stand next to him, but not too near him.

Mary and Henry had spread a blanket on the lawn and were sunning themselves on the emerald grass. Henry had a water bottle, and every now and then he would flick water at his sister, so that she shrieked and elbowed him in the ribs. The pleasure they took in each other's company was nice to see.

"Do you think that's stupid of me?" Ned asked. Maybe he was looking at me, I didn't know, but I gazed directly down at the pastoral scene in front of me as I answered.

"No. I think you should be able to trust your instincts."

But I still felt that twinge of doubt. I felt it, and I didn't say anything. It wasn't my doubt that mattered.

* * *

><p>Mary found me when I was alone in the den, reading a book. Even though I didn't make much noise myself, I was used to there being noise around me, and every time I settled down to try to read I always became aware of the little sounds around me as if my ears were working over time to compensate for the silence. I tried to read as often as possible, but "try" was the operative word in this situation because I had barely cracked the first one hundred pages in a book I'd been reading for the past two months.<p>

The couch wasn't terribly comfortable, and so I wiggled myself down in it and began to read, only to discover that the pillow behind me felt lumpier than I had thought it was, so I moved it. Then, of course, my back was at a different angle to the back of couch, so I had to adjust myself again. I had only finished the first paragraph when the door opened, and Mary stepped in. She stopped abruptly when she saw me, but then her smile widened and she came to sit next to me as casually as if we'd always been friends.

"Hey there, Fawn." Her smile was easy-going, so I smiled back. She looked at me shrewdly for a second, then said, "Listen, I'm sorry about when we met. See, we didn't know anything about you, and-no, this is important-I just wanted to let you know that I would never have treated you like that if I'd known how things were, that's all."

Something about that troubled me, but I brushed it aside as more of my recent ridiculousness. I nodded to her appreciatively, and she smiled again. "Good. You know what, I like you. I think you've got a little something about you. Plus, you're shy, and God knows every strong-willed bitch like me needs a friend like you to keep her priorities in line, don't you agree?"

I just looked at her, my eyebrows raised. She looked back at me, her own expression becoming what I can only describe as fondly despairing. "Oh, God, you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? I'm sorry, I shouldn't go pulling my LA stuff with you here. You're kind of unspoiled to the way things are, aren't you? I like that, too. See? I told Henry this, and now I'm going to tell you, too. I think we're going to be best friends here, you and me. What do you say to that?"

She had done exactly what Tom had done, making assumptions about me like that. I had put up with it with Tom, even excused it. From her, though, it made me feel small and backward. She'd seen so much more of the world than I had. She must know all the things I didn't. But I still didn't like having what I didn't know rubbed in my face like that.

I was full of uncharitable thoughts. You don't know her, I told myself, echoing my own hypocritical words to Ned. You can't decide how you feel.

I was living from knee-jerk reaction to knee-jerk reaction. Mary was beautiful and knowledgeable and friendly, and there was no reason not to nod and smile at her, except for the twinge I felt at agreeing with her opinion of me. I had told Ned to trust his instincts; I was actively devoted to the art of ignoring mine.

But she was so disarming, and I hadn't figured her out yet, and in spite of myself I desperately wanted a female friend. So I smiled, and shrugged, and then nodded. Nodded again. Yes, yes I will be your friend. Yes, I say.

She grinned and held out her hand, and I shook it. I didn't feel the earth move under my feet.


	7. The Zoo

Rush's family had been in the dairy business since 1898. The farm near Burlington, Vermont, was widely considered to be one of the crowing glories of New England, both for its architecture and for the sweeping, impeccable view it had over Lake Champlain. Unfortunately for everyone at Mansfield, Rush would not stop talking about it.

I hadn't had dinner with the entire family since Dr Bertram had left. Normally, Ned would make us something simple (his favorite was grilled cheese) and we'd retreat to the den to sit and watch a movie. There had been a dinner, once, when the Grants had first arrived, but it was populated only by the "adults," and being only eighteen and being me, I wasn't included in that number. Julia, to her endless dismay, hadn't been either.

Mireille had wanted a formal dinner for the younger crowd, and what Mireille wanted, Mireille got. The lights were low, the food (cooked by someone else) was perfect, the setting was right. And Frankie Rushworth, fiance extraordinaire, was ruining it with his chatter.

"But here's the thing, the really really _cool_ thing," he went on, looking around eagerly at a table of people who were completely bored by him. "Some of them have really similar spots, so it's like hard to tell them apart. Like, Bella, she has a huge one that kinda looks like France, and then Isis has one that's a little more like Texas, but they're on the exact same spot on their sides, so it's like _whoa_, you know, like, _which one's the real one_, here..."

I'd never been to Vermont. I'd never seen a cow anywhere but on TV. When Dr Bertram had taken his family to Mount Washington Valley in New Hampshire every summer to stay at the Eagle Mountain House, I was left alone with Aunt Nola and Norris for three weeks in Mansfield, riding my bike up and down the same paths I'd ridden before. I'd looked at pictures, but I'd never seen the north of New England myself. Normally, I'd be interested to hear about anywhere outside my bubble. I was not, however, thrilled to be hearing a treatise on the personalities of various livestock in the Rushworth Family Dairy.

I caught Ned's eye, and we both immediately had to look down at our plates to keep from laughing. I suddenly became very interested in my fork. Mary, seated across from Ned, caught my glance and rolled her eyes, miming falling asleep only to drown in her own soup. I stifled a laugh, but it got bigger and bigger in my ribcage, swelling in my throat, threatening to break out and take no prisoners.

Yet again I was bowled over by how beautiful Mary was. She was elegantly turned out in a cocktail dress that was just the right fit and just the right length for her body. Mireille had always made me feel sloppy and second-rate, but while I would never be able to attain the plane of fashion on which it was obvious Mary lived, it didn't feel like she was berating me for my limitations. She hadn't passed a derisive gaze over my "dressy" clothes the way Mireille had, but had complimented me in what sounded like absolute sincerity. I decided that in spite of my continued misgivings, I did like her. My misgivings about her seemed trivial, anyway, compared to my other concerns.

I glanced down to my left, where Mireille presided over the head of the table. Mrs Bertram was sick with a migraine, and Aunt Nola had given up her place as the hostess since it was Mireille's house and Mireille's idea, and because Aunt Nola would have given Mirielle her spleen if she'd even mentioned wanting it. So now Mireille sat at the head, Queen of all she surveyed, a smug smile on her normally bored, impassive face.

On Mireille's right was Henry, with Rush on her left. Rush wasn't exactly paying attention, but Mireille and Henry were taking great care to conceal the fact that under the table, Henry's hand was resting on Mireille's thigh, and Mireille's foot was running up his leg. From where I sat on Henry's right, my view was unobstructed, whereas Ned would have had to look around my body to get a better look, and he was too discreet to do that in the middle of dinner. Julia and Mary, who might not have had such scruples, were seated on the other side. Mireille had planned everything perfectly-it wasn't as if I would have been able to say anything, even if I'd wanted to. I flicked my eyes away from them, then back, then up to Mireille's face and started to find her glaring at me in what I could only say was triumph. Her eyes glittered; she was daring me to say anything, rejoicing in the fact that I couldn't.

I looked away. It was none of my business what she did, no matter how surprised I was that things between them had gotten to this level so fast. Wasn't it only a week ago that they'd met? I was judging her, I realized, and out of fear that she would feel that I decided to turn my mind to other things.

I turned to Ned, hoping maybe that I would manage to say something under my breath, though I don't know if I wanted to warn him about Mireille or say something else. I turned to find him and Mary gazing at each other from across the table. Mary's eyes were fixed on him, considering him much the way she'd considered me, but there was something in her eyes that I didn't recognize. Ned was having trouble maintaining eye contact, so he'd look down at his plate, or glance around the room for a second before his eyes were drawn back to her. Mary smiled fondly, watching him struggle, and he returned the smile a little sheepishly. Mary must have felt me watching her, because she turned to look at me, and said, "So Fawn, you ride your bike a lot, I see."

The entire room fell silent, even Rush, who faltered to a stop. Julia gaped at us from the end of the table, wide-eyed. I didn't look at Aunt Nola, but I knew she'd be annoyed. This was not supposed to be my night.

I glanced around before I settled back on Mary, then nodded. She sat back, her wine glass raised about level with her collar bone, and studied me. "Every day?"

I nodded.

"I have to say, I'm a little jealous," Mary said, hitching up one shoulder in endearing self-deprecation. "Would you believe, I've never learned how to ride a bike?" She took one look at how my eyebrows shot up my forehead, and threw her head back and laughed. "I know! It's terrible. I used to be afraid of them, and then you drive everywhere in LA anyway, so...I think it's fantastic that you're so active. You make us all look bad."

In my rush to reassure her, to turn the attention away from me, I said, "No, no," before I stopped, startled. Everyone else was startled, too. Everyone but Mary, who just grinned at me. "Am I making you uncomfortable? I'll stop if you want."

I looked at her pleadingly. I didn't like this topic; I wasn't interesting enough to talk about. She held up her hand, said "I'm sorry, I'm done." I nodded at her in appreciation, then shivered with a cold that wasn't in the air, but in my bones. Ned settled himself closer to me, put his hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

I nodded up at him, trying to smile reassuringly. I just didn't like it when everyone looked at me. I sat a bit closer to him, then turned to get my water glass, catching Mary's gaze. She saw Ned's hand on me, saw the way I leaned toward him, and registered it. Her face didn't change, but I found I wasn't comfortable under her stare, so I drank water as a distraction, disappearing behind the rim of the glass. I couldn't wait to retreat upstairs to my bedroom, but the way things were going, that wouldn't be for another two hours. I imagined myself curling up on my bed in my pajamas, blissfully alone, or with just Ned for company, reading to me out of whatever book he was in the middle of now. That thought would have to sustain me for awhile.

* * *

><p>My bed was my favorite place in the house, after the kitchen. In my time with Nola and Norris, I had collected a vast array of hand-me-downs from Mireille and Julia: discarded Christmas presents, old clothes, regretted purchases, what have you. The vest out of all of these was the patchwork quilt that lay on my bed, which Dr Bertram had gotten from an Amish community on his way up from DC, but which Mireille had scorned as old-fashioned. Loath as she was to give me anything good, Nola had handed it over to me only begrudgingly, comforted by the fact that her pet hadn't liked it, convinced that that meant it was only second-rate and would therefore for do me.<p>

I loved it. It had made my room in the attic seem habitable, and here, in Mansfield, it made my new space comfortable and secure. This was the way a bedroom was supposed to be, I thought, cozy and safe and private. I stretched out on top of it, in my pajamas, not ready to sleep yet but unwilling to do anything else but lie there and listen to the sound of my own breathing.

There was a knock on the door, and since I was sure it was Ned, I said, "Come in," in a happy sort of voice. Dinner was behind me now. I tried not to focus on it.

The door opened. It wasn't Ned. Mary stood there, peering around the door in near-comical hesitation. She was still wearing the same dress from dinner, so she must have been having coffee or something after dinner all this time.

"Hey. Can I come in?"

My mouth opened, and I got out a sound that was almost the word, "I" before my throat closed and I choked. I coughed a little to cover it up, then gestured to Mary that it was all right. She stepped around the door, and I saw she had a large manila envelope in her hands.

"Oh, good. I was afraid you wouldn't want to talk to me...I mean, see me." She smiled sheepishly, so obviously apologetic that I had to smile back, however unwillingly. "Look, Fawn, I'm really really _really_ sorry about what happened at dinner. It's just, here's the thing," she settled herself on my chair, where Ned had been only a few days before, "I want you to like me. I want _all _of you to like me, but especially you, because I think you're special, you know? Like, actually special. So then I get nervous and I say things, and then it's clearly not the right thing to say, because I totally embarrassed you in there, which is not at _all_ what I wanted to do. So I'm sorry." She paused, a little out of breath. I fought to keep a smile off my face; she was nervous about what _I _thought of _her_. "I guess I just have to get my head around the idea that you don't _want_ attention like the rest of us do," she went on, flipping her hair back unconsciously. "Like, where Mireille and Julia and your Aunt Nola and _yes, _I admit, even me, where we all want to have people notice us and praise us, tell us we're pretty, that's like your worst nightmare. And not just the ladies, I guess. I kind of thought that if I gave you a compliment tonight, that other people would join in and you'd be happy, but I was wrong, because it only made you uncomfortable, and I'm _so_sorry about that."

I looked away, miserable. Mary was giving me yet another reminder of how abnormal I was, and I didn't like it, even if it were true.

"Fawn, I don't want you to be mad at me, or whatever, because I like you. I told you that. And I'm a good person, whatever stupid things I spout out randomly, and I guess I just want to prove that to you. To _all _of you." I looked back at her, surprised by the emphasis. She was looking at me, earnest apology written clearly all over her face. It would be cruel not to forgive her. And she hadn't known, not really, how things were with me. My pettiness embarrassed me.

So I did what I did best. I smiled, and I nodded, and this time I reached out to her and patted her on the knee in what I hoped was a comforting way. She smiled, relieved, and looked down at the manila envelope in her lap.

"I was hoping you'd say that, because I have something for you," she handed me the envelope with a flourish. If I had been able to speak, I would have asked her if she would have given it to me if I hadn't forgiven her, but I couldn't speak and that level of semantic nit-pickery was low in my books. I took the envelope from her and opened it, pulling out a number of workbook packets with titles like SPELL and SPEAK: On the Farm; and O, U: The Vowel Book. I looked up at her, askance, and she chuckled.

"Not from me, I promise. It's from Caleb. Doctor Grant," she went on, seeing my confusion. "He told me you might want them, but that you might not want to ask for them, so here they are."

I looked down at the books, feeling suddenly breathless. Could these things really cure me? I tried to imagine it, and found that I just couldn't. Fawn Price, speaking like normal people. Fawn Price, me, saying whatever she wanted whenever she wanted to say it. I wanted to believe it, but it had been like this for so long, I didn't really believe anything would make me better.

Mary saw my face change, and she read me exactly right. "You can do this, you know," she said quietly. "It's not like some secret club for people who speak and people who don't. You can do this." I looked at her, and tried to smile reassuringly, and then smiled again in thanks. It would never happen. Not to me.

Mary, sensing the mood change, stood up, smoothing down her dress. She was so well put together, it shamed me in a way that it hadn't only earlier this evening. She was normal, or better than normal. No wonder she thought it would be easy for me. She turned and walked to the door, then stopped and turned around.

"You're just as good as anyone else out there, you know. I don't know what this whole family dynamic's about, because frankly it's a little weird here, but I do know that you're just the same as everyone else out there, if a little more moral than some," she added wryly. I was surprised-it seemed like she'd known about Mireille and Henry after all. "And because I know that, I know that you deserve good things You can get them, too. You just have to accept that you deserve them, you know?"

I nodded, less out of agreement than out of a desperate desire to be alone. She looked at me penetratingly, and I think she saw that, too. She read people very well.

"Listen to me. You're going to have to beat me away with a stick, Fawn Price, because I swear to God, I'm going to help you with your problem, whether you like it or not. Get ready. I'll come back every day if I have to, and we'll work on it every day until we turn you into a Chatty Cathy. And it won't just be me, either. We'll enlist Ned to help, too, so you'll have to deal with both of us. Just you wait." She smiled at me, triumphant, then turned and walked out the door.

I listened, holding my breath, as her heels clacked away down the hall and finally disappeared, then I pulled my pillow closer to my chest and cried myself to sleep.

* * *

><p>AN: Hey guys! I'm doing NaNo, so updates might be thin on the ground for a bit, but do not despair. I will return in December (or earlier, depending).


	8. Locked Out

"Ned?" We were lying on the grass, under the shade of a huge maple tree, some ways away from the house. I was on my stomach, he was on his back.

"Hmm?"

"What if I could speak in public?"

He took his arm off of his eyes and peered at me, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean...I mean would it make a difference, do you think? To you? Would you like me better?" I split a piece of grass down the middle with my thumbnail.

He sat up, indignant. "Like you better? What are you talking about?"

"Nothing, forget it," I sighed, throwing the blade of grass down. I could feel his eyes on me, and I tried to avoid looking back at him, but I did, and I sighed again. He knew I was hiding something.

"It's just that you have to watch out for me, and I was thinking that maybe if I could talk more you'd feel like we were on more equal footing, that's all. That you'd appreciate it." I peered out over the sun-soaked lawn, then looked back at him, with his forehead wrinkled in concern.

"I wouldn't care if you couldn't see or hear or walk and I had to carry you everywhere. That doesn't matter to me." His voice was light, but his eyes were serious. I believed him, and it sent shiver of warmth through me, erasing some of the cold I'd carried around with me since the night before.

Still, I wanted to know. "It really doesn't bother you that you're always the one who has to do the talking?"

"Does it bother you?" The question hung in the air for a moment, until I remembered that it wasn't hard to answer.

"Yeah, I guess. Since it means everyone else has to take care of me. I feel bad for them."

"Them? What about you?"

Now I was the one to look confused. "What do you mean?"

"You keep talking about how it bothers you for everyone else's sake. What about for your sake? Do you want to talk to help yourself, that's really the question. Forget everyone else."

I tried to imagine myself forgetting everyone else. I tried to imagine myself going back to Boston without any of them, and living there, or going to a completely different place and introducing myself as Flannery and being whatever I said I was. The thought terrified me as much as it thrilled me. I could almost see it.

"I guess I want to do it," I shrugged. "It's hard to be really sure why I want to, but I want to."

He lay back down, turning his head toward me. I blinked and looked away from him; for a second he looked beautiful and it had taken me by surprise. I looked back at him and he was just Ned again.

"What brings this up?" He wanted to know..

"Oh, well..."I hesitated bringing Mary up, though I didn't know why, but I immediately thought better of my hesitation, "Mary came by last night to give me stuff from Dr Grant, and she said that she wanted to help me with my exercises, too, so..." I trailed off, because I had a sneaking suspicion the look of warm approval that had spread over Ned's face had nothing to do with me getting lessons, and everything to do with who was giving them.

"That was really nice of her," was all he said.

"Yes, it was." My voice fell flat for some reason. He didn't notice.

"So you're definitely doing it, then? Getting Dr Grant to help you with your speaking?"

I shrugged, "Why not? It's not like it can do us any harm."

"Good." He turned his head away, throwing up his arm again to cover his eyes. I found myself wishing he hadn't done that, so I could look at his face, see what he was thinking. I was being ridiculous. I looked away.

"Is it okay if I borrow your bike for a bit?" His question came out of nowhere, and I turned back to him, startled.

"Don't you have one of your own? Or does it just make you mad with jealousy 'cause it's so pretty?"

"Ha,ha, Miss Price. Clearly, it's not for me. It's so I can teach Mary how to ride. She's never learned, and I thought this would be a good time to teach her."

"Mary's taller than me. Why don't you borrow Mireille's bike?"

Ned made an almost derisive noise in his nose, something that surprised me. "Mireille decided she doesn't want her bike after all, and she threw it away."

The thought of my beloved old bike, the one I'd ridden every day for years and years, being put into a dumpster and hauled off to a landfill paralyzed me with sadness. Ned must have realized that belatedly, because he put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a little rub. "Sorry, Fawn. She never was sentimental about the things she owned."

The silence between us stretched out, before Ned said, "As for Mary being too tall, we'll just raise the handlebars when we use it and lower them before we give it back to you. It won't be long, and you won't be inconvenienced, I promise."

An internal war was taking place. Ned had bought me that bike, and so I owed him this favor, not to mention a favor for everything else he'd ever done for me in my entire life. If he'd needed the bike for himself, I wouldn't have hesitated. If he'd wanted one of my kidneys, I wouldn't have hesitated. But lending the bike to Mary gave me pause. I didn't want her to have it, but I couldn't even tell myself why, since there was nothing wrong with her. Ned liking her, Ned approving of her, that should have been enough to recommend Mary to me. Not lending the bike was selfish. I couldn't ride it all the time.

Ned noted my hesitation. "I know it's new, and you love it. Believe me, I'll take better care of it than I would of anything I own." I thought of his room, tidy, free of dust. He was my friend. I had to trust him. I did trust him.

I let out my breath. "Okay. You can borrow it."

His smile widened, a smile so happy I had to return it. I don't think he knew what smiling did to his face, but it made my heart beat a little faster.

"Okay? I can?" He sounded like a boy on Christmas.

I laughed at his exuberance, flinging the piece of grass I'd been holding at his face, rolling over to face the sky. "Okay. Just make sure you take care of her, okay? The bike, I mean."

"I promise."

I flung my arm over my eyes the way he had, turning my world a dark, rosy color. A breeze picked up around me, running over my skin and giving me goosebumps, even in the heat. I breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, and bit by bit my heart stopped racing and my blood flowed more evenly through my veins.

* * *

><p>Nola needed me. The note that she'd written in capital letters and tacked onto the fridge that said simply "FAWN- 9:30AM TO 3:30PM. LIBRARY" did less to request and more to order my presence on Monday morning. It was still early, but my rigid schedule was beginning to slip. I hadn't gotten up the moment I'd woken, but instead I'd lain on my bed, watching the early morning breeze blow my sheer curtains into wild, transient ribbons of white and grey. I was mesmerized. Not feeling the need or the motivation to get up, I'd waited as the sky lightened and the desperate, strident birdsong modulated into something softer, happier, less insistent. I'd ignored the first growling of my stomach, and the second, but finally I had to give into my hunger, and I'd gotten up, padding down the spiral staircase to the kitchen, where I'd found the note stuck on the fridge. Aunt Nola had known just where to find me.<p>

I looked at the clock, biting my lip. There wasn't enough time to go on my normal bike ride this morning, and still be showered and presentable to Aunt Nola by nine-thirty. I would have to see if I could get it in later in the afternoon, before dinner. If Ned was finished by then.

I sighed, opening the fridge and searching for the open milk. It had all seemed so simple yesterday morning, giving Ned what he wanted. I felt petty being frustrated by it, especially since it was the right thing to do to lend Mary something she needed. I was used to considering Ned, used to considering everyone, come to that. Why was this so different?

I sat down at the counter with my bowl of Cheerios and stirred them around for a while, watching them watching me.

Aunt Nola wanted something from me, too, as it turned out: "Hold that still. Stop slouching." I held my hands out again, the yarn wrapped around the backs of them like a failed cat's cradle, as she slowly and methodically wound the ball she had decided to make, one of exactly fifty-seven she needed for a yarn ball still life thing she was going to use to decorate the front hallway. The yarn she'd liked-a mere seventy-five dollars a skein-hadn't come in balls. I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, willing my spine to lock into place so she'd leave me alone.

Mrs Bertram was relaxing on the couch, her eyes closed. This was one of her more heavily-dosed days, which happened more or less every two weeks. Her eyelids fluttered slightly from time to time, but for the most part she was out cold, and would be for hours.

Luckily for me, Nola wasn't interested in using me for her entertainment today, and she wasn't interested in lecturing me about my place in this household, which was by far her favorite subject when it came to me. She had a small smile at the corner of her mouth as she worked, and I found myself watching her, fascinated by the interest she was taking in what I thought to be the most mind-numbingly boring activity I had ever witnessed. She'd found the design in a home magazine. No one had had the heart yet to remind her that this was not, in fact, her home. Not really.

Now it was my turn to smile to myself. She and I were in the same boat now. I wiped the smirk off my face before she could see it, but I felt it warming my insides the way only an ironic little secret can.  
>When Nola wasn't focused on me, she didn't seem so terrifying. Comforted by the fact that she was taking no more notice of me than the couch we were sitting on, I studied her face, trying to pinpoint the feature that intimidated me so much. She had blonde hair, which at this point in her life was probably dyed to stay so free of greys, and it was always perfectly styled, if a little outdatedly. Her eyes were smallish and a little close set. I had never seen her without makeup. There were normal middle-aged crows' feet at the corner of her eyes, a few frown lines on her forehead, lines around her mouth that I would have called laughlines if I'd ever seen her really laugh. She wasn't much of much, with her eyes turned away. I prayed that she wouldn't feel what I was thinking and look at me. I liked being her furniture much better than I liked being her joke.<p>

I glanced at the clock. Noon. Sooner or later, we'd have to stop for lunch, at least long enough for Nola to down the grapefruit and tea she had everyday at exactly twelve-thirty. My stomach growled; the Cheerios hadn't been enough to satiate me today. I sat up as straight as I could, as still as I could make myself, and felt the seconds tick slowly by.

She let me go at four-fifteen, with the understanding that she would need me again in the morning for the next round. We'd only finished thirteen balls of yarn. We still had forty-four to go.

I raced to the shed, hoping at least to be able to ride a little bit before I had to be back for dinner. I flung myself against the door, sure that I'd be able to open it, since it was almost never locked. I pulled hard on the handle, only to be sent reeling back when the door didn't give. Frowning, I tried again, only to realize that the door was locked. Ned had locked it, with my bike inside. I didn't have the key.

I stepped back at stared at the door, catching my breath from my run. Ned couldn't have known that I hadn't taken my early morning ride. I hadn't seen him all day, not even at lunch. He must have thought I'd gone riding like I normally did, right after I woke up. He must have thought he was doing the responsible thing, looking after my bike, by locking it up. That was the only reasonable explanation for it.

I turned back to the house, then turned again to look at the shed. I could go ask Ned for the key, but if he was with Mary, things could get awkward, since I couldn't ask him for anything in front of her. Also, if he were with Mary, I didn't want to interrupt, make him pay attention to me. He needed his own things without me barging in and demanding things of him.

But I really wanted that bike. Riding it had been just about the only thing that had gotten me through Yarnageddon, and the prospect of doing it all again tomorrow made me want to break into that shed and ride my bike to freedom.

I could wait. Ned didn't need to know, since it was just one mistake, just one time. If it happened again, I told myself, then I would say something. I'd give him a chance to figure it out by himself.

That night, I sat next to Ned, and I tried not to notice how happy he looked, how preoccupied he seemed. For myself, I picked at my food, too disappointed to eat very much. I didn't notice at first when he called my name.

"Fawn?" I snapped my head up, looking at him, at his bright, shining eyes, at the warmth with which he looked at me. I watched him expectantly; maybe he'd realized his mistake.

He smiled at me as if he'd known I hadn't been paying attention: "Can you pass the peas?"

* * *

><p>Disaster followed me around all week. The next morning the shed was still locked, and I still had no key. Then Nola found me before I'd even had a chance to eat breakfast, and we'd sequestered ourselves for Round Two. By the end of the day, nothing had changed. The next day was the same. And the next.<p>

On Saturday, I arrived at the shed to find it unlocked, and I flung the door open with glee, only to find that the seat and the handlebars were raised too high for me. My first attempt to ride had sent me crashing ignominiously to the ground in just a few seconds. My second was a little more successful, but my legs were soon aching with the strain of reaching the pedals. I knew I couldn't ride to town and back like that, and so I brought my bike to a smooth stop, half falling off it in order to dismount. I wheeled the bike back to the shed and closed the door, and suddenly I found myself gasping with heartbreak. Ned had promised me, promised me that he would put it back the way it had been, that he'd take care of it for me. I couldn't fault the bike's condition-it was pristine-but he hadn't thought about me at all, not even enough to put the seat and handlebars back to where they'd been before.

It hadn't been malicious, I knew that. He hadn't deliberately wanted to upset me, deprive me. I had lent him the bike, the bike he'd gotten for me. It wasn't forever. I knew he cared about me more than almost anyone else in the world, but still somehow the fact that he hadn't even considered me made me feel as alone as I'd ever felt. I tried not to blame him. If I'd just talked to him after that first time, I wouldn't be so disappointed now. If I'd wanted him to think of me, I should have reminded him that I existed. We'd barely seen each other all week, but that was my fault, too. If I'd really wanted to see him, I should have sought him out.

I sighed, turning away from the shed and trudging back to Mansfield.

The next day, in the middle of Yarn Ball #54, Ned came into the parlor for the first time all week. This was unusual-normally he was there at least once or twice a day, even if only for a little bit, to talk to his mother and write in his book. He'd told me once that that parlor was one of his favorite rooms in the house for writing. Had he written a word all week? I didn't know, and the fact that I didn't know made me sad.

He looked around at the women assembled: his mother, lying on the couch, petting her little dog and humming to herself; Nola, wrapped up in wrapping; and me, my back rigid and sore, my arms tired, my mind wandering. He took one look at my face and sent me a glance that was full of sympathy, then walked over to kiss his mother on the cheek.

"Darling. Haven't seen much of you lately," came her dreamy voice.

Ned smiled a little to himself, settling himself in his chair with an air of satisfaction. "I've been keeping myself busy. How are you ladies doing?" He directed the question at me, but I turned my eyes away so wouldn't see the real answer. Mrs Bertram responded to his question, but it was something I didn't listen to. I didn't know where to look, and I didn't know how to look at him.

Aunt Nola snapped, "Fawn, sit up, for God's sake. What have I been telling you all week?"

I sat up, keeping my eyes down on the carpet. Ned's voice, indignant, burst out, " 'All week?' You mean she's been doing that all week?"

I stole a glance at Nola, who was looking at Ned with surprise. "I've needed her help with my project, I couldn't do it by myself, you know..." she trailed off. I turned to look at Ned, and I could see why. His eyes were a blaze with anger, something I'd almost never seen, and it shocked me so much that I forgot that I hadn't wanted to look at him, and so I stared at him like Nola, mouth open.

"She's been holding yarn for you all week? Couldn't you use a chair for that?" He pointed to one of the wooden ladder-back chairs around the room. "Did you have to make her sit here to do it? What about her?"

There was a silence, in which Nola clearly wanted to ask what about her? but restrained herself in light of her nephew's rage.

Ned turned to me, his voice less rough, "Fawn, are you okay? You look a little pale. You haven't let her go outside at all?" he addressed Nola again, his voice harder.

"Ned, darling-" Mrs Bertram started, but Ned interrupted, "She's human, Mom, and she's young, she should be going outside, or riding her bike-"

He stopped short, and I looked at him in alarm. He was staring at me, eyes wide open in horror. He turned away from me for a second, then back, his jaw hardened. He looked so much like Tom.

"Your bike. I've been locking it up. I forgot to lower the handlebars yesterday. Fawn, I'm so sorry-"

"What are you talking about?" Nola's voice was a little shrill with the memory of hurt pride from Ned's censure. Ned stood, walked to the window, then turned back, his hands on his hips. When he spoke, his voice was measured, as if he were explaining things to a small child he secretly wanted to strangle.

"I'm talking about how we've been selfish, all of us. Me most of all. You've been using Fawn for your own project and not thinking about what she might want to do, and I've broken my promise to her. We should all be ashamed of ourselves. That's what I'm talking about."

The clock ticked into the silence that greeted his statement. Mrs Bertram did look a little sheepish, Ned abjectly miserable, but I thought it would take a miracle to get Nola to ever feel any real remorse for what she'd done to me.

"Fawn, you're free, I'll take over from here," Ned said, jerking his head at the door. I gaped at him for a second, throwing a glance over to Nola, who ground her teeth together. I looked back at Ned, at the muscle that twitched in his jaw, and I stood up, unlooping the yarn from the back of my hands but trying to keep it in its perfect circle nonetheless. I laid it on the seat of the sofa where I'd been a moment ago.

I tried to smile my thanks to Ned, my savior, as I passed, but he reached for me, pulling me into a hug that lasted several moments. "I'm sorry," he murmured to me under his breath. This was the best way he could have apologized to me; I felt a wave of sympathy for him. I hugged him back, whispering back, "I forgive you," although there was really nothing to forgive, then stepped back from his arms and turned to walk out of the room.

I made a beeline to my bedside table, opening the top drawer, and took out the books Mary had given me, and started to speak.

* * *

><p>AN: NaNo has won again, it seems.


	9. Wind off the Lake

Julia's elbow dug into my side. Squished up against the car door, I had one leg propped up on the lip of the doorway, the other bent at an awkward angle to make way for Julia's right leg, which, though slim and shapely as she endeavored to make it, was taking up most of the space in the backseat of the sedan.

I'd never been particularly fond of cramped spaces, not, I was sure, due to claustrophobia but more due to the fact that I liked having elbow room. Now, though, I didn't mind so much-I was looking out the window, and I liked the view. New Hampshire was lovely this time of year.

Since coming down to Connecticut, I hadn't travelled much at all. Before I'd come to Mansfield, my life had been more or less stationary in Boston and the surrounding area, though the city was active enough that I'd never felt stagnant. I'd never been to northern New England. I'd never seen Vermont. The rolling elevation of the land all around the highway, the hills covered in pine trees and maples, the dusty green of the landscape beyond, was all new to me, fascinated me. I've since travelled across the country, to different countries, different continents, but my first trip to Vermont still holds the most magic for me; it was the first time I'd ever been anywhere but home.

It had almost never happened. When Rush had first brought up the possibility of a trip to his family's land in Burlington, it was an unspoken understanding to all involved that I was not included in the final tally. Rush had been breathy with excitement, his boyish face lighting up to a ruddy, breathless pink, his hand gestures becoming expansive.

We'd been sitting at the dining room table after lunch, Aunt Nola, Mrs Bertram, Mireille, Julia, Henry, Rush, and me. I was playing with my fork, just waiting for a lull in the conversation so I could excuse myself, when Rush looked up from where he held Mireille's hand, and addressed the entire table. "How would you all like to see Sotherton Farms sometime soon?"

There was a moment of hush, in which everyone around the table was thinking much the same thing: Sotherton was supposed to be fabulously beautiful, but going there would mean spending time with Rush. The internal struggle didn't last very long, however; the summer had dragged on and on and everyone had intense cabin fever. Even I was beginning to feel restless, something I'd stopped feeling a while ago. I was eighteen now. Eighteen was the year things usually happened.

The decision to go was made quickly and decisively by everyone around the table. Then the roster for driving, who and for how long; the list of people going, from which my name was conspicuously absent. Normally, it wouldn't have bothered me to be left off the list, since that was pretty much par for the course with my life in general, but I felt an inexplicable and ridiculous sense of betrayal at being left out. Aunt Nola was sneaking glances at me down the table. I tried not to let anything show on my face. I was a stone, I was a rock, I was a lake, still and imperturbable. I knew it wasn't working. I kept trying anyway.

When at last I could make my escape from the table, I hurried outside. My room, with all of the myriad comforts it usually offered me, now seemed stifling and claustrophobic. I was suddenly sick of my bed, my quilt, my little desk, my creaky old chair. I wanted nothing to do with it. I knew I was being unreasonable, rushing headlong outside like a bat out of hell, but I kept going. I didn't want to stop. I didn't want to think.

The next thing I knew, I was standing on the front steps of the cottage, my fist pounding on the door. I caught my breath, pulling back my hand suddenly, as if the door had been searing hot. For a moment there was no sign of anyone inside, and in that moment, horrified with my rudeness, I turned away from the door, stepping down onto the walkway to go back where I'd come from. Maybe I'd go for a ride, maybe-

The door opened behind me. "Fawn?" I turned to see Dr Grant's face, gazing at me in surprise. My hand was stinging. I'd really pounded on the door. I blinked up at him, at a loss for a way to explain what I'd done without using words. I shook my head, and moved my hand in a way that tried to say _It's Nothing, Don't Worry_, but as I turned my back, he called out again.

"Fawn, wait." I stopped, frozen on the pathway. If I'd had the ability to say anything I wanted, in any language I wanted, I still wouldn't have been able to explain what had happened. I felt shamed by my own ridiculousness.

"Let me see your face." I took several deep breaths, then turned around. I owed him some kind of explanation. When I finally got up the courage to raise my eyes to his, I saw none of the outrage or judgment I'd expected to see there. Instead, I saw concern, an overwhelming sympathy. No pity, I was glad to see. His pity would have shamed me as much as his anger would have done.

I raised my hands a bit away from my sides, then let them drop in a gesture that was almost a shrug, almost a presentation: _Well, here I am_. The corner of his mouth hitched up for a moment, but he wasn't mocking me.

"Do you want to come inside?" He stood away from the door, giving me plenty of room to go into the front hall without brushing against him. I hesitated for a second, and he let me. His gaze never left my face, but somehow I didn't feel like he expected anything of me. He was letting me choose for myself.

When I stepped through the front door, I could feel immediately the difference in the house. The furniture was the same, as were the carpets and the curtains and everything else in the house, but somehow the atmosphere was so different that I wouldn't have been able to tell it was the same house if I hadn't known it to be. There was still that feeling of stillness, or isolation. Now it felt like a sanctuary. Before it had felt like a banishment.

Dr Grant closed the front door behind me, and I turned toward him, waiting for him to show me which way to go. He gestured up the stairs. "Last door on the right." I led the way, knowing exactly which door he was leading me to.

He had changed the guest bedroom into an office. The desk and chair that had once been down around the corner for Norris were taking up residency in the sunnier, smaller guestroom. I looked around in wonderment. I had never been able to fill the room with this much life.

The office was organized to a point, but papers littered the floor in a semi-random pattern.

"Sorry about the mess," he said behind me as I picked my way over the pages and pages of handwritten notes, "I'm trying to get my thoughts in order for my book. The very idea is kind of laughable, as it turns out, since getting my thoughts in order's a little like making a street map of the Amazon. Not that my thoughts are as prolific as the Amazon. No self-aggrandizement intended." I sat in the chair he directed me to, and he sat in his own chair at the desk, and swivelled it to face me. I felt suddenly as if I were there for an interview, and I shifted awkwardly in my seat.

"I know," he said, smiling at me apologetically, "it's not very comfortable. I'd have taken you to the kitchen, but my in-laws bump around here at any time of the day, and I wanted you to know that whatever you say will be private."

_Or fail to say_, I thought. My misery must have shown on my face.

He raised his eyebrows. "You think you don't communicate? I can read your thoughts pretty clearly from where I am. It's just that people get caught up in the brutally obvious. They forget to look at the obviously evident. If that makes any sense."

It didn't. Maybe it had been a mistake to come there.

"Now, I'm going to make a number of assumptions, and you can nod or shake your head accordingly, okay? And if there's anything you don't want to answer, you don't have to. I'm not interested in invading your privacy. Does that sound like a good deal?"

I nodded, a little wary.

He smiled at me again, gently. "Okay, then. Let's start."

* * *

><p>Vermont was beautiful. I had never known that a place could be that beautiful. Not even the loveliest part of Connecticut I'd ever seen could compare with the way Vermont was bathed in light. The grass on the side of the road grew side-by-side with something that looked like hay but was a little shorter, a sort of pale green so light it looked yellow from where I sat, watching it as it whizzed by. The highway rolled over itself, up hills and down hills, and the trees, pushed back a little from the road, made a textured blanket so vast it looked like it would fall right over the edge of the world. I was transported. Nothing in my quest through encyclopedias and atlases and the Internet had prepared me for the visceral, breathtaking beauty that was Vermont. And this was only the highway. Somehow, Sotherton Farms had to be more beautiful than this. I couldn't imagine it.<p>

I turned my head to catch Ned's eye in the rearview mirror. I smiled at him, so happy, and he grinned back before turning his eyes back to the road. Mary, in the front seat, caught us glancing at each other and turned to smile at me, reaching out a hand to grip my knee playfully for a moment. My bad will toward her had been erased by the excitement of the trip, so I smiled at her, too, before turning again to watch out of the window as the countryside flew past me.

* * *

><p>I fiddled with the fraying upholstery on the arm of my chair. I remembered that chair well: I had used it as a place to put my clothes for the next day when I was still in the attic. Aunt Nola had been meaning to get it reupholstered and oiled, since it squeaked, too, but she'd never gotten around to it and it had been banished to come live with me. I'd never sat in it, though. it was surprisingly comfortable.<p>

I didn't look at Dr Grant, but he didn't wait for me to. From the corner of my eye I could see him cross his legs and turn toward me, so that he was facing me head-on. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that something's wrong."

I focused on the fraying fibers, playing with them. I doubted he'd get angry if I made the fabric any uglier than it already was.

"Can I ask you a question?" I looked up for a moment, then right back down at my hand. I nodded.

"Okay. That wasn't the question I wanted to ask you, so can I ask a few more?"

I raised my eyebrows, giving him a look. He threw back his head and laughed at the expression on my face. "Sorry. Couldn't resist, even though it's the oldest joke in the book." He wiped away imaginary tears, and I found myself smiling at him. He smiled back, then settled into his chair.

"Serious time, now, I suppose. No, what I want to know is if you find me intimidating."

I felt the smile slide off my face, then looked down again. Looked back up, and nodded. Shrugged. Shook my head. Shrugged.

He nodded back. "So it's not really _me_personally you find intimidating, it's the whole thing." I held his gaze for a long moment, surprised. He nodded. Shrugged. I smiled at him, and he returned it warmly.

"Can I tell you a story?" he asked, tilting his head to one side like a curious sparrow. I nodded, fascinated despite myself.

"This one time when I was in senior year of college, I didn't sleep for about a month."

I tried to imagine that, and couldn't. It sounded terrible. My thoughts must have shown on my face, because he nodded ruefully, one side of his mouth hitched up in agreement. "Yeah, it was bad. And you know, it went on for a lot longer than you'd think it should have done, because I was stressed out about schoolwork and papers and professors and blah blah blah, but even after I dealt with whatever was stressing me out, I was still worrying about not sleeping, and it was that worry that was keeping me from sleeping more than anything. I'd turned sleeping into something I just didn't do, couldn't do, would never be able to do again. I forgot that it was my right." He let himself trail off. I watched him, and he watched me watching him. The house breathed around us for a moment, the room we were in quiet and still.

"Growing up the way you have, with the people who took you in, hasn't been good for you. Maybe they've managed to convince you that you're not interesting, that you don't have anything to say. But sitting across from you, I can tell you that I would _love_to hear what you think. I would love to hear what you have to say, not only because you're a person and you deserve to be able to say what you want, but because I look at you and I see a fascinating person who's trying to pretend she's not. Everyone else might doubt you, but I don't. Not even if you don't believe me yourself."

My breathing was coming quicker now, not from fear or anxiety, but from something else, a sort of dawning wonder at the man who sat before me, and a tightening feeling in my chest that I couldn't explain, couldn't describe. It wasn't a bad feeling.

I looked up to meet his eyes after a moment, and he hitched up the corner of his mouth in a little smile, then turned around to his desk, picking up a pen. "I'm going to give you what I like to call Phase One, if you can forgive my plagiarism of all actions movies ever." He opened one of his drawers, took out a card and an envelope, and started writing in it. "No peeking, now," he threw over his shoulder, and I couldn't help laughing out loud. He wrote for a moment, then slid the card in the envelope, and sealed it as he turned to face me.

"Here's the deal. I'm going to give you this card, which you can't open until the time on the card, _very secretive_, and you read the card and think about it. Sound okay?"

I raised my eyebrows. It sounded so adolescent, but it was intriguing at the same time. And since I'd already decided to give Dr Grant a chance, I couldn't very well say no to something like this, as insignificant as it seemed to me.

So I nodded, and his grin widened as he reached out his hand for me to take the card. I turned it over in my hands, noticing the capital 'G' on the back flap, and a time, 8:15 PM, scrawled on the front. The paper was good quality. Heavy.

"No peeking," he said again, and I crossed my heart with my right index finger, which made him laugh. Feeling like that was an end to our meeting, and surprisingly not at all afraid of insulting him, I stood to leave. I'd gotten within two steps of the door when I remembered my manners, and turned to face him, holding my hand out for him to shake. He smiled again, then held the door open for me to step through and down the stairs.

He said it under his breath, but maybe I was meant to hear it, after all: "You raised yourself right."

I didn't stop to ask what that meant, but continued out the front door and into the brilliant sunshine.

* * *

><p>Stopping at a rest stop, we caught out first breath of the mountain air. Once we'd crossed over the border from Massachusetts to Vermont, the exits had become fewer and farther between, so the opportunity to stop for a break needed to be grabbed as swiftly as possible.<p>

There was something different about the air further north than the air in Connecticut. There was an earthiness, a moisture, but also the smell of the sun, of grasses dried in the heat. The area seemed deserted; cars, but no towns that I could see. I felt like I was climbing to the top of the world. I breathed in deeply, then again, then again, wishing I could bottle this scent. It smelled the way I thought happiness would feel.

Ned came to lean on the car next to me, watching me, a smile on his face. "You're liking this, aren't you?"

And because I was so happy, because this was all so new to me, I turned to him as if there were no one else around, and said, "This is the best place I have ever been, Ned. Thank you again."

He slung one arm around my shoulders, and we leaned together companionably for a moment. "You shouldn't be thanking me, you know," he said, and though I could hear the anger in his voice I didn't let it concern me. "They should have included you from the start."

I looked out at the other passengers from the car, ranged all over the rest stop. Julia was stretching, Nola smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt, and Mary was drinking from her bright red water bottle. She had sunglasses on; it was impossible to tell if she was watching us or not.

"You included me," I said quietly, yet another wave of contentment sweeping through me. "I've never been this far north before, you know."

For a moment, Ned stiffened, then relaxed. He grunted. "I don't know why that surprises me. It's not like you ever got to come with us anywhere before, but still..."

"Have you ever been to Sotherton? Do you know what it's like?" I had resisted the urge to look at pictures online. I didn't want the surprise to be spoiled for me.

"Never. It'll be the first time for both of us." He gave my shoulders another squeeze, then brought his arm back, sticking both hands in his jeans pockets. I thought he looked dashing, like James Dean or something, but I wouldn't say it. Thoughts like that were embarrassing to me, I couldn't imagine how he'd react. Mary's gaze was still inscrutable, but I inched away from him just in case. I didn't want anyone getting the wrong impression.

* * *

><p>The envelope had burned a hole in my pocket all day, and my fingers had itched with curiosity. I know now about a game that middle schoolers play, where a friend writes the name of a boy on the palm of your hand, and a time on the back, and if you look at the name before that time you have to tell him you like him. This deal with the card and the time felt like that: heady intrigue, the rush of curiosity, even if what's written on the inside turns out to be mundane. The not knowing made it more interesting than knowing ever could.<p>

So it was with the card. I had never before been tempted to disobey instructions. Surely Dr Grant wouldn't be upset if I looked early, not the way anyone else would be upset if I didn't follow the rules, and then I'd know, and I'd have one less thing to think about. But for all that, I felt obligated to wait, and it turned out that the anticipation of waiting for the card made the monotony of everyday life, and the smug expressions on everyone's faces, all the more bearable. I had a secret. I'd never really had a secret before.

If Ned had been around, I would have been tempted to tell him. He would have urged me to wait, told me that Dr Grant was a professional, so I should follow his advice. But Ned and Mary had driven off to town in the late morning, and it was only as the rest of us were sitting down to dinner that they reappeared.

I tried not to watch Ned's face as he settled himself down in his place next to me, but it was so full of something that was not quite joy and not entirely excitement that I couldn't help but look. The others around the table were drawn to him as well, sending glances his way. Mary, on the other hand, looked as pristine as ever, every hair in place, with her characteristic little smile on her face. She looked like she always had a secret, too, I realized. If the day had made her especially happy, I couldn't see it. If the day had been a complete disaster, I couldn't see it either. I was staring. She caught my gaze and winked, glancing at Ned across the table, then turned to direct a comment toward Julia.  
>I sat and ate my peas quietly. My mind, which was normally cock-full of thoughts and half-finished sentences, was unusually still. I glanced at the clock every now and again, waiting for it to reach eight o'clock, at least, but the minutes had only crept by and it was barely seven thirty.<p>

Finally, the conversation turned to Sotherton. Mary perked up at the news of a road trip, and even Ned seemed enthralled. Ignored, I pushed my remaining peas around my plate, until the subject of logistics came up. The list of names for the cars driving up, and who would be where, had all been laid down as carefully as a seating chart at a wedding, and soon enough it became clear that my name was not on that list.

Mary sent a glance at me, but her small smile remained on her face, as if she hadn't heard or she didn't care or she didn't want to make a scene. After a moment, I stopped trying to figure out which one it was. Instead, I watched Ned's face fall, his mouth taking on a grim tightness as Mireille expanded on the plan with the ease of a captain on her ship. I tried to catch his eye, shake my head, tell him not to bother, but he barely spared me a glance. When she'd finished her plan for the group's itinerary, Ned's voice whipped out, " What about Fawn?" His tone was barely civil.

The room froze. I groaned inwardly. Ever since the Affair of the Bike, Ned had been tenacious as a bulldog on his warpath for Fawn Rights. He had been careful to tell me all his plans in advance, and made sure that he did exactly as he'd said he would do, and he made sure that Aunt Nola didn't use me for more of her projects.

Mireille didn't even blink. Her perfectly sculpted face raised one eyebrow. "What about her?"

"We're not even bringing her with us?" I was glad I couldn't see his face. I didn't like it when he was angry.

"Why should she? She's never come before."

Henry glanced down the table at me, then back at Mireille. "She sitting right there, you know."

"Someone needs to stay home and take care of Mom. You know she shouldn't be left by herself." Mireille took no more notice of Henry than she would of me. It was clear that this was between her and Ned.

Unspoken in the conversation was Mrs Bertram's valium addiction. I wondered what I would do if it ever became an emergency. It wasn't like I could call an ambulance.

"Aunt Nola, I guess you're going on this adventure, too?" Ned's voice was flat with distaste. Nola sent me a look that made my soul whither into my slippers, and I sat back so Ned blocked my view of her.

"Well of course, Edward," no one called him Edward except Nola, who thought the name Ned was ugly, "I've never seen Sotherton. Imagine how beautiful it'll be this time of year."

"Did you ask Fawn if she wanted to go?" There were several raised eyebrows around the table. Julia and Mireille snorted softly. Nola's derision was hidden from me, but I could feel it emanating from her, even with Ned as a shield.

"Ned, you don't just ask Fawn anything," Mireille said. "What would she do? Blink once if yes, blink twice if no?"

Ned drew himself up, his body rigid in anger. Henry sent another glance down toward me, then leaned toward Mireille, putting his hand on the table close to hers. "Mireille..." Rush made a sound that would have been a growl if he were an animal, and Henry pulled himself back as casually as if he'd simply lost balance, a studiously nonchalant expression on his face.

If I could blush, my face would have been burning. I tried to find something, anything to focus on that wasn't this argument, this argument over me that was making Ned fight his own sister. Ned was my friend, but still, it didn't seen worth it to me.

I glanced at the clock. Seven forty-eight.

"Well, then fine, Mireille, if that's how you're going to be. Fawn doesn't go, then I don't go. We'll hold down the fort for you while you go off to make sure the holding's to your satisfaction." If he had been anyone else, Ned's voice would have been dripping with derision. As it was, his tone left Mireille flushed was anger. Rush, unable to pick up on the vocabulary or the sarcasm, glanced at Mireille's reaction and furrowed his brow.

The fact that Ned would give up the chance of seeing the most beautiful property in New England for the sake of solidarity normally would have sent me into raptures, but I felt a deep sense of dissatisfaction. I had wanted, so badly, to go to Sotherton myself. Now I'd be stuck here taking care of Mrs Bertram. True, Ned would be with me, but with the prospect of going to Vermont that idea no longer seemed like enough.

Mary sent an alarmed glance down the table to Henry, who picked up her message lightening-fast. "I don't think that'll be necessary, Ned. I've got a solution to the problem, if you're all willing to listen." He could have been playing Go Fish, his tone was so casual, so completely unmoved. He waited for a moment for everyone to calm down. Nola, contrary to her general obsequiousness when addressing him, turned her head and snapped, "Well?" before she remembered who she was talking to, and tried to smile prettily.

"Our sister's not up to driving much right now, since we just made that huge trek. Grant's going to be in Hartford for a conference that weekend, and Belle's gonna be lonely without him here, so..." he trailed off, making a vague gesture with his hand, then continued, "I'm sure she'd be thrilled to keep your mother company for a little while."

It took a moment for everyone to readjust to the new idea. Clearly still angry with each other, Ned, Mireille, and Nola eyed each other warily, but there was no reason to start shouting again. Once everyone was talking in civilized voices again, I got up from the table and cleared my half-eaten plate.

I didn't hear Nola behind me, but when I turned to head up the spiral staircase from the kitchen to my room, she was in my path, her hands on her hips, her expression furious. Suddenly impatient, desperate to be left alone, I tried to brush past her, but she reached out and grabbed my arm, hard enough to make me grit my teeth in pain. I brought my eyes up to stare at her, surprised. She'd never lost control like this with me before.

She glared at me for a moment, then spoke, her low voice shaking in anger. "You got lucky this time. When Ned gets tired of having his little orphan around, you'll be right back where you belong. Don't get used to this."

She should have terrified me. Maybe I was already so humiliated that it was impossible to terrify me even more, or maybe the fact that she was putting me in physical pain woke something up inside me. Several ideas ran through my mind-ideas like pushing her away, spitting on her, or the distant dream of eviscerating her with my words-but instead I just glared back until she let me go and swung back through the doors.

Later, curled up on my bed, my chair shoved under the doorknob to deter any trespassers, I flipped the card over in my hand. The clock read 8:17PM. I ripped the envelope open, opened the thick cardstock decorated with a simple typeset 'G' in the bottom right corner, and read:

_There is really only one thing you need to know to begin with: No one in the world is better than you are. No one in the world deserves more than you do._

I read it several times, trying to find any hidden meanings in it. Phase One. I didn't understand.

* * *

><p>Sotherton's main driveway was beautiful. Partly sculpted, but all with the trees and rocks that seemed so much a part of the landscape they could only have been there from the beginning, it was half-shaded by trees, from under whose covers we would burst into dappled, peach-golden sunlight. The wide expanse of grass was heavenly green, and that smell was back, that straw-sunbeam-moss-stone smell I breathed in lungful after lungful. Julia groused at me to close the window. I pretended not to hear her.<p>

We parked on a hillock a little way from the house. Mireille and Rush, with Henry in the backseat, had parked right in front of the main house, which was a gorgeous construction in red brick that managed to be both stately and avoid looking institutional. We got out of the car, and while others turned toward the house, I looked down the drive to the massive view of Lake Champlain. I barely remembered the ocean. Even living in Boston, right on the water, it hadn't been a big part of my life. I didn't know how to swim. Lake Champlain, choppy today from the winds that blew across it and into my face, took my breath away, even if I could see the other side.

The second envelope was digging into my skin. I checked my watch. 4:14PM. The time on the card was 3:30PM. I ripped it open, surprised by my excitement. Dr Grant had winked at me as he'd given this to me before we'd headed off. For all that I hadn't understood the first one, I was ready for the next.

_All the people that you know are fallible. It's easier in the long run to accept them as imperfect beings than to be the one who's always wrong. It's probably better for them, too. No one should have to be a hero._

I read this note twice, too, then stuck it back in my pocket, watching the lake move and change, and feeling the wind ruffle my hair.

* * *

><p>AN: Merry Christmas!


	10. Green Tiles

"Fawn?" I turned away from the lake, the wind momentarily blowing some hair across my eyes. I didn't have to see to know that it was Mary calling my name. When I brushed the hair away, I saw her looking at me, her hands on her hips, her head cocked to the side like a curious bird. "Watcha doing out here?"

I blinked, looked around. There was no one else nearby. I hadn't noticed them go in, if in they'd gone.

Mary was looking at me like she expected me to explain. I looked back at her, my eyebrows rising by the second. Inside my head was Aunt Nola's voice, cautioning me about my poor attitude, but I ignored it.

"You wanna...I don't know, maybe follow the group?" she stepped aside, her arm gesturing to the front door. Curiosity to see what was inside the house came over me, and I nodded and shrugged. I make a mental note to come back to that spot before we leave, and look out over the water again, lock it in my memory. Who knew if I would ever get a chance to come up to Vermont again.

The foyer of the great house sent us from the brilliant sunlight into instant darkness. A cool wave flowed over my body, not from air conditioning but from the very materials the house was built of in the late 1880's. As my eyes adjusted to the low lighting, I made out a polished wood parquet floor of impossible intricacy, smooth tiled marble walls that crested into a beautiful wooden ceiling with miniature vaults, of the same wood and quality as the floors beneath our feet. I fought hard to keep my mouth from gaping open in amazement. I had thought Mansfield was beautiful, and it was, but this was breathtaking.

"Keep up," Mary whispered to me, putting a hand on my back and guiding me to join the group. I fought the urge to break away from her and study the tiny details of the walls and floor, the very bones of its architecture. We made our way swiftly to what looked like a sitting room, all leather and dark polished wood with thick, beautifully crafted carpets. The rest of our expedition was convened around the unlit fireplace, gazing up at a painting above the mantle. Ned caught sight of us entering the room and something in him seemed to relax as he smiled at both of us. Mary stood between us, but Ned leaned around her to wiggle his eyebrows at me, giving a quick glance around the room to show he was impressed, too. I smiled and nodded in agreement before turning to pay attention to Rush.

Rush was in his element. He was always at his best when he was talking about Sotherton Farms, and now, standing in the middle of his domicile, he is the happiest and most confident I had ever seen him. It was almost endearing to me, but I could see from the look on Mireille's face that it was less the man than it was his house that charmed her. I couldn't blame her-the chance to have a place like this as my home was a giddy thought.

The tour dutifully traipsed through the house after our buoyant, boyish guide. My eyes were drawn to the little details: word-working on the door frames, the slow change of stately on the bottom floor to comfortable through all the family rooms. We didn't see the kitchen. I couldn't ask.

When he brought us out again into the bright sunlight, and we made our way squinting across the yard to the family chapel, I breathed in the brilliant, moist air. Ned nudged me with his arm-he'd come around my left side, so that Mary was on my right-and whispered "Not bad, huh?" And because I was happy, and because I thought I finally understood what Dr Grant had written about no one deserving more, and because I wasn't afraid of Mary anymore, I laughed and said, "Yeah, you know, it's not too shabby." Ned grinned and laughed, delighted, and from the corner of my eye I saw Mary smile at me, too, before we stepped into the chapel doors.

Sunlight streamed through every window, so bright that for a moment I expected there to be no roof, to find that I was looking not at a vaulted stone ceiling but at open sky. The chapel was built in the European gothic style, according to Rush, and not the clapboard American style, because it gave the place a sense of grandeur the Puritan New England architecture didn't understand. Every single word of what he said went over my head, but I drank it in, storing it for later when I did understand.

When Rush was finished talking, and we broke into little groups to explore, I found myself following Ned and Mary automatically. The point at which I realized that they might not want my company was exactly the point at which they noticed me, and any escape was impossible.

"Beautiful place," Ned murmured, nodding around.

"It's okay," Mary said. Her voice was less reverential, less hushed. While Ned and I were craning our necks up and around to get everything, she was paying only a courteous attention to the space, and her hand thumped against her hip rhythmically. She seemed impatient.

"Not a big fan of the gothic style, huh?" Ned joked.

"Not a big fan of churches," she said, laughing as she looked around, "big rooms where people are forced to pray to some non-existent big man in the clouds to save their souls? No, thanks. Religion seems like a whole lot of hoopla for me, to be honest." I froze, flicking my eyes to Ned, whose face seemed to fall before my eyes. But she had know that...He had to have told her...Too humiliated to speak or too polite to correct her, he said nothing, but trailed a few steps back behind her. From my spot, a few steps behind him, I could see the tense set of his shoulders, the way his thumbs rubbed the knuckles of his forefingers over and over again. How could he have not told her? How was it that what you wanted to do more than anything in the world had not been a topic of conversation yet? I found myself wondering, and when I realized that my wondering reflected badly on both of them, I shook my head, uncomfortable. There must have been something else to talk about. I hadn't been there, hadn't seen. But still.

As if he had felt me staring, Ned turned to wait for me, his mouth hitched valiantly in a little smile as if I hadn't heard what had just happened. "And what do you think, Miss Price?" He had the careful focus of someone who hadn't slept in days and was trying to overcompensate.

"It's a little...I don't know," I said, looking around. "It's beautiful, but it feels like there's something off about the way it's built, like it's too low or too dark or they meant it to be one way and it turned out another. I don't know. Just rambling." In my attempt to explain myself, I hadn't bothered to lower my voice, and fifteen feet away from us, Mary turned to look at us.

"Oh, so you're an architect?" I closed my mouth with a snap and looked down at the floor, away from her face. There had been nothing malicious in the words, but I felt the heat of them anyway. I had no idea what I was. It had been an honest question, though. But why hasn't she asked Ned what he is yet?

My reaction must have shaken Mary, because she started forward as Ned placed his hand on my back, concerned. "Hey, what's the matter? I'm sorry, I wasn't judging you, you know." I gave a jerking nod of my head, and, thinking of Ned, lifted my eyes to meet her, to give her a little smile of reassurance. When she finally stepped away and gave me room to think, I turned back to see Ned's mouth tighten at the corners, a frown line appearing between his eyebrows. Today wasn't the very best day for him.

I took a deep breath, and then another. No one deserves more than you. No one deserves more than you. No one in the world. Even if they were just to make me feel better, even if Dr Grant hadn't meant them, thinking about them helped. And it was just Ned, after all. No one to be afraid of. No one to be uncomfortable around.

So I breathed again, and leaned in again, and said, more quietly this time, "I think the person who made the house should have made the chapel. They made the house to be different. This looks like they were trying to make it be like another building." I'd only ever seen pictures of places like this. I had never been in one myself. So maybe I was wrong, maybe what I'd said was stupid. I didn't think it did.

Ned opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a call across the sanctuary. "Are you going to have your wedding here, Mireille?" Julia, standing next to Henry, watching Mireille watch him. Rush was next to his fiancee, but no one paid attention to him.

Mireille shrugged, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off her pristine outfit. "Probably."

"You know, if Ned were a minister already, we could do the ceremony right now. You and Rush at the altar," Julia raised her hands, capturing it all in the small frame made by fingers and thumbs, "Ned saying the blessings, Henry and me for witnesses. Mary could be the photographer, and Fawn could be the flower girl. Precious, don't you think?" She was laughing up at Henry, who smiled back politely, but it was only politely. Julia didn't realize how desperate she sounded. "The picture of New England country elegance."  
>In the slight pause that followed, I tried not to look anyone in the face. The tension was palpable in the room. I didn't know where to put my eyes. Then Mireille laughed an airy, unconcerned kind of laugh, like an adult brushing off a pestering child, and turned to Rush, as if he were sharing her joke. "Cute, Julia. Though I think I'll take care of the wedding planning from now on, okay?" I watched as both sisters turned away as if they didn't care, as if they weren't insulted. Suddenly the open, airy sanctuary was oppressive and close, and I couldn't wait to leave. I slipped out the door, into the bright sunlight, leaving the wedding party down a flower girl as I let the sunlight scrub my eyes clean, and the wind polish the nastiness off my skin before it sank in and settled.<p>

I had taken only ten steps outside when the door opened again and I heard Mary's voice, "A minister, huh? Were you going to tell me about that ever?"

"I was." He sounded like he was enjoying a simple academic conversation. I moved away from the doorway, trying to give them their privacy, but they moved toward me until they caught up with me, and then we were walking together down the path over the lawn. Ned on my left, Mary on my right.

"Okay, so explain to me why it is you want to shame other people into being religious, because I'm having a hard time understanding why a nice, modern guy like you would be into anything so archaic." The words made me flinch, but her tone was as casual as Ned's had been, as if none of it mattered at all.

I looked determinedly ahead of me, trying not to see the way Ned glanced up at the sky, eyes checking for rain clouds amid thousands of miles of impeccable blue. I tried not to see Mary run her hand through her hair. I couldn't block out Ned saying, "I think we have different opinions about that. But I don't know if you want to hear mine right now."

"Oh, whatever. I don't want to fight about it or anything, it just seems weird that someone as smart as you can't be, like, a doctor or a lawyer or something."

"I'm sure I could be. if I wanted. But I don't." I could hardly bear the sound of his voice, the distance, the frigidity. This Ned reminded me of Mireille, of her nonchalance, and the cold I felt had nothing to do with the wind pulling my hair away from my head.

"Maybe you just haven't found anything better."

"Maybe you're right."

The wind picked up again, and I pretended it was pulling me away from the conversation, or at least deafening me and blinding me, too.

No one should be a hero.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until night, when I was sitting along out on the back brick verandah, that I found peace again. When Ned and Mary had finally let me be alone, I'd run directly into Mireille and Henry, who didn't seem to notice my presence. Rush had found me after I thought I'd found a place to be alone, and had talked my ear off until it was time for dinner. Outside, away from the crowd inside, I could find again that soaring sense of peace I'd found before. Even the night air seemed different here; cooler, softer, more fragrant. The earth was still wet here, not burnt to a crisp the way it always was in Connecticut.<p>

This house was so beautiful, right down to its foundations. Someone, some brilliant, passionate someone, had cared enough to make it perfect, to bring all the details together. And for all his faults, Rush loved this place, breathed this land, this house, this lake. He was proud of where he lived. It had never occurred to me to be proud of Mansfield.

I wondered what it would be like to be able to build things like this. To construct something where there had been nothing, to be a creator, a real visionary. The people who did that must be so smart, so well educated. Ned could do that, I thought, or could have done if he hadn't wanted to be a minister. For someone who'd stopped school when she was sixteen, the prospect must be impossible. But it was beautiful, building beautiful houses. I still wanted to be the kind of person who could.

I leaned back against the outer wall of the building, still warmed from the sun. I wanted to stay here, just like this. Alone. I wanted to walk through the grounds and lay in the grass, and not have to see anyone. It may have been the happiest feeling I'd ever had.

The back door opened, and footsteps approached. Ned's voice said, "Don't worry, it's only me."

My gaze still fixed up at the stars, the thousands and thousands of stars, I said, "I wasn't worried."

He settled himself down next to me, but not too close. "You love it here."

I smiled, breathed in. Breathed out. "I love it." The silence came up around us for a moment, and the two desires-to be alone and to talk to Ned-warred within me. I turned to him. "Did you see how the green tiles in the walls were reflected in the ceilings?"

He looked at me quizzically. "No, I didn't notice."

"Or how, walking from one room to the next, the floors were kind of leading you there, like the house wanted you to be in the exact same room you were going to?"

He was smiling now, a strange expression on his face, "No, I didn't see that either."

"Or how the ceilings gave depth to the rooms without making it huge and empty and echoey? and the same wood used in every room, even the new furniture?"

"Did Rush tell you about this?"

I blinked at him, surprised. "No. I saw it myself. It's a beautiful house, Ned."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I never knew you liked architecture this much."

I shrugged. "Me neither. Guess we do now, though."

"Guess we do."

I sighed again. "I've never been anywhere this beautiful before." The night sent up a breeze to kiss my face, and I tilted my head up to meet it, unashamed.

"So...what do you think of Mary?" His voice was diffident, almost embarrassed. I glanced at him in surprise. We'd never talked about his dating life before.

When it became apparent that he was expecting a real answer from me, I dug around for something to say. What did I think of Mary? How could I put something I didn't know into words?

I settled for, "She's nice. And she's definitely beautiful. And outgoing. But, Ned, does she really hate religion that much? Did you really never talk about what you wanted to do with your life?" The thought of it seemed inconceivable to me. If I'd had any real dreams, I'd want someone I was in love with to know. Not that I had either one of those things. And not that Ned was necessarily in love with Mary.

He sighed in frustration, running his hands through his hair. "I don't know, it just never came up. I wasn't avoiding it. And I don't think she's against me being religious, not once I show her that I'm not, I don't know, a bigot."

"You only have to meet you once to know that, Ned." The words came out before I'd thought of them, but I found I wasn't embarrassed by them. They were the truth.

He smiled at me, the worry lines around his eyes smoothing out a little. "You always know what to say." He reached for my hand, grasping it with his, bringing it over to his knee. It was a gesture he'd made before, it didn't mean anything, but I found myself looking away across the lawn, suddenly awkward, suddenly hot. I was glad I didn't blush. We sat like that, the wind dying down, the stars blazing, for a long time. Neither one of us said a word.

* * *

><p>AN:Sorry I've been a long time. Work is owning my soul.

But seriously, now, people, why don't you review?

Maybe I'm just spoiled from the other, more popular Jane Austen threads...


	11. In Diagonals

Dr Grant threw the notebook across the room, and it landed in my lap with a small thud.

"Heads up." He said, too late. I gave him a look, then reach down to turn the notebook so the cover was facing me. It was a composition notebook; stitched bindings, black and white cover. Old school.

On the cover was FAWN, in Dr Grant's version of neat handwriting, all capital letters and funny angles.

I looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

"Phase Two, my friend." The remnants of Phase One were currently residing in the top drawer of my bedside table. There had been two more after those others: _Love yourself, and you'll love the world_, and _Add "in accordance to the prophecy" at the end of every sentence everyone says for the next two days. Just for fun._

"It consists of a couple challenges, all for your eyes only, and all for you to do in your spare time."

I was made of spare time. That wouldn't be difficult.

"Have a pen?" I brandished mine with over-the-top flair. He grinned. Nodded in approval.

"Okay. Page one. Assignment. Write down all the things around you that you love. Things you do, things other people do, things you see, things you eat. Whatever. Write them down."

I watched him, waiting for the other part of the assignment. It seemed so simplistic.

"And...that's it. I promise it's good for you, Price."

He shooed me out the door and into the humidity.

Humidity was not going to make it on my list.

* * *

><p>I had always thought that Mansfield was beautiful, from the first minute I'd seen the rolling lawns and clusters of trees. Now, though, after seeing Sotherton, Mansfield seemed smaller, less palatial in nature. Looking at it, I could see the choices made during building, could break down what I liked and what I didn't. Where the house had been one solid, unchangeable entity, now it was a sum of small parts, and there I was, architecture critic, surveying from on high.<p>

Mary's casual comment about my being an architect had stuck like a burr. I couldn't get rid of it, not matter how I tried. I _was _trying to, not just for the perceived derision in her tone, but because she had put a name to it, a vocation, a profile. I knew, painfully, that an architect was suddenly _exactly _what I wanted to be. I just would never be one.

Mary had gone out to get lunch in town hours ago, alone, and had come back not long before, alone. Before Sotherton Ned would have gone too, but now he was, if I was not very much mistaken, sitting with his mother and Aunt Nola in the front parlor, the way he had done before Mary had come. I tried to imagine that he was happy there, but I knew the truth. I could go up and comfort him. Spend time with him. Keep him company. Something about that prospect terrified me, which was ridiculous, because this was _Ned_, the one person who never scared me. I tried to reason with myself, but I found myself largely unresponsive to reason, so I gave up.

I found a likely spot to sit down underneath a tree; secluded, cool, hidden. I settled down, knees to my chest, and tried to think of positive things.

* * *

><p><em>Things I love<em>**  
><strong>_by Flannery Price _

_The kitchen_**  
><strong>_pretty buildings_**  
><strong>_my room in the main house_**  
><strong>_my bike_**  
><strong>_my brother and sister_**  
><strong>_old Buicks_**  
><strong>_when I wake up in the morning and the house is empty and I can run through the hallwa-_

The sound of tires crunching on the gravel drive made me look up. A sleek black Benz came to a smooth stop in front of the house, and even from a distance I recognized the figure stepping out of the passenger side. Tom. The other man, tall and thin with a shock of red-gold hair, smoothed his suit down before turning and loping up the front steps. I didn't recognize him.

My instinct, my first instinct, was to turn back to my book and avoid the main house for as long as possible. Tom coming back early- coming back without his father- was going to cause something of a riot in the family, a riot I knew better than to be anywhere near when it happened. If arguing with Tom didn't put Aunt Nola and Mireille in a bad mood, my being there while they argued would definitely do the trick. I was better off going for a bike ride. Better off missing dinner altogether, when it came to that.

But then I thought of Ned. Ned would want me there, especially if there was a confrontation. Ned would need someone to talk to about everything, after Tom belittled him again. I thought of Ned, and I thought of Tom, who was walking into the lion's den, on purpose, and daring people not to react. I'd seen his face that night in the kitchen, I'd seen the way he'd looked at me, looked at him shoes. He would need a sympathetic face in the crowd, too. I could be that, even if Ned couldn't.

My spot on the ground seemed cozy compared to what was just inside, but I got up anyway, closing my book firmly and tucking it under my arm.

I knew, one way or another, that I would pay for this.

As I slipped through the kitchen door, I could already hear them at it in the first-floor sitting room. I fought against the urge to tiptoe down the hall, or slink back into the kitchen and up the stairs to my bedroom. Instead I stepped up to the door and opened it quietly, slipping in and shutting it noiselessly behind me.

"...But what about Dad?" Julia was saying, hands on her hips. "Where is he?"

"He's good, he's fine," Tom waved his hand airily, "he's still there. He'll be back next week like he said he would." He was smiling, but his face looked rougher than it had the last time I'd seen him, and there were circles under his eyes.

"I wish you'd called us," Mireille put in, "let us know you were coming."

"Miri, darling, when have I ever called for permission to come to my own house?" His smile was all indulgent kindness. I could almost hear Mireille's teeth grinding together from my place by the door.

A quick glance around the room showed almost the entire family; a pastoral tableau of various states of anger, in various states of repose. Ned stood by the window, his arms crossed in front of him, his body turned toward the view of the front lawn. Julia stood nearby, brow furrowed. On the couch were Rush, Mireille, and Henry, and Tom took up the entire loveseat himself, his arms stretched out over his domain. I frowned to see Henry there, with Mary sitting in one of the armchairs, perfectly relaxed. It wasn't my place to judge, but it seemed inappropriate for them to be here. It wasn't their family. _It's not your family, either. _There was the red-haired man, leaning by the fireplace, behind Tom's shoulder. His fingers were playing with the lid of a crystal candy dish.

"Fawn! My darling! My joy!" Tom opened his arms wide enough to embrace the whole room, but it was just me he beckoned to come sit down. I hesitated, glancing around the room, before making my way over to where he sat. He didn't move over to make room for me, and so we were pressed uncomfortably close together, our thighs touching. I perched, shooting a glance at Ned, who met my gaze, expressionless.

"Long time no see, my love," Tom said, throwing an arm around my shoulder and bringing me close to his side. "How's life been around here with these people? Were you dying of boredom without me?" I sent a nervous smile up to him, then glanced around again at the rest of the room. Though I knew I wasn't blushing, my face felt hot as I saw that everyone else was staring at me.

I had seen families talking to each other through their pets-a married couple who only fought passive aggressively through speaking to their dachshund, four siblings who insulted their gerbils in sweet voices. I had wanted to be there for Tom; I hadn't realized what that might mean. I couldn't stand up and walk away, not now that I'd insinuated myself on the company. There was only one thing I could do now, to get out of this with any kind of dignity.

_Phase One: No one is better than you. Breathe. _

"Hello, Tom," I said. It came out small, barely more than a breath of air, an idea carried in on the wind, but it came out. For a moment, before I managed to look up at the shock and surprise on Tom's face, my heart felt like it had jumped up into my throat and lodged itself there. Then I looked at him, at all the faces around the room. Variations on a theme, again. My heart began to beat again, much faster, and I was filled with a wild excitement that was nothing at all like the harsh anxiety I was used to feeling, the mortification. I had spoken.

_I bet you your dachshund can't do that_.

I glanced again at Ned, who I thought must be grinning, the way he normally did when I managed to get a word out in public. But, no, there he was, his face unreadable still, glancing from Tom to me and back. A small frown line had appeared on his brow.

Tom found his voice first. "My God. Things sure have changed around here." He withdrew his arm from around my shoulders, then sent a look around the room. "I mean, I go away for a few weeks, and..." he turned around suddenly, sending me reeling in toward him on the cramped loveseat. "Hey Yates, what was that idea we had last night? The really good one?"

Yates's mouth hitched in a little smirk, "You mean the one about the adult film company or the one about the pyramid scheme?"

Tom waved his hand dismissively, "No, no the _actual _good idea I came up with."

"Kind of hard to tell once we get you going, Bertram. Get a couple drinks in you, and-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but there was that one...Oh yeah!" He turned back to the rest of us, and I ricocheted against him before I righted myself, inching myself further away from him. He went on, "So I had this idea, right, for something to entertain us. Well, _me_, I guess, but who's counting." He sent his genial smile around to his siblings. Mireille rolled her eyes and sighed loudly, and Tom fixed her with a glance that spoke of a weary patience.

"Well _fine,_darling, if you don't want to partake. We all know you're allergic to fun. You can sit this out and chill with your boyfriend. Or your fiance. Take your pick."

I glanced at Ned, who opened his mouth, frowning, only to close it again. Before the silence could get too awkward, and before Mireille could formulate an insult scathing enough to shoot back, Mary put in, "So what's the idea?"

I turned to look at her, so pretty, so vibrant, even just sitting in an armchair in the parlor of a stuffy old house. She looked perfectly comfortable, and, now that I was looking at her, I thought she looked at Tom as though she was sharing a secret with him. I peeked at Tom, expecting to find him as impressed as Ned had been, but he only raised his eyebrows, considering, before shrugging wide and smiling for the whole room again. "Nope. I'll tell later, after all these kids have calmed down a little and admitted that they're glad to see me. Right, Fawn-my-love?" He nudged me a little with his elbow, and I couldn't help smiling at him, my own eyebrows raised. He shook his head. "Amazing. Just amazing."

I shrugged self-consciously, aware again that all the eyes in the room were on me. I sat back on the couch, trying to imagine I was Mary, and I was queen of all I surveyed.

I looked again at Ned. His eyes were on me now, and he didn't look happy. I turned away, smoothing the knee on my right leg with two fingers. Queen of all I surveyed.

* * *

><p>Dinner had dissolved into several disparate plans, each person going his or her own way. Tom and his friend Yates had headed out in Yates's shiny car to sample the pleasures of downtown, leaving Ned and me to fend for ourselves.<p>

I watched Ned flipping over our grilled cheese sandwiches. He had cut up an avocado and added that in as well, and the smell was tantalizing. My stomach growled, sensing that food was near.

The lights were low in the kitchen. It was late, and dark outside. The sizzle of the griddle and the ticking of the clock were the only sounds in the room, until Ned turned off the burner and cut the sandwiches in half with the spatula, serving them up on two plates.

As he turned around, I found myself saying, "I thought you'd be happy."

He slid one of the plates in front of me and handed me a napkin before replying. "Happy?"

"That Tom's back? You missed him."

"No I didn't."

I sat back at that. Ned wasn't one for lying. "Yeah, you did. You always do, every time he leaves." **  
><strong>He stared down at his plate, then picked up one of the halves of his sandwich. "I just didn't like the way he was talking today, that's all."

"Isn't that just the way he always is? Big and loud and all?"

"Yes, but...I don't know if I can describe it to you." He broke his half into two halves, and ate one with deliberate attention.

I blinked. "You can try to. I'll try to understand."

He looked up at me then, and gave me a look that I'd never seen before, something that was almost exasperation, and almost pity, and almost regret. I had to look away from it. "It's not that I don't think you can understand it. I just don't know if I can say it right."

I watched him eat the second little square before I realized my own grilled cheese was getting cold. I turned my attention to eating it, letting silence take over the kitchen once more. It didn't feel as comfortable as it had before.

"The way he was using you to get attention off him." I looked up from the last bite of my sandwich to find Ned pushing the crumbs around his plate with his index finger. "He does stuff like that when he's uncomfortable. The way he was talking to Mireille, too. I think something's up with him."

I watched him, his head down, his eyes trained on something far away from his plate. Worry lines tightened the corners of his eyes. I thought briefly, madly, of what he would look like when he was older, if he would have more wrinkles that came from anxiety than from laughter. I wondered what my face would show, or if it would show anything. I shook the thought away.

"Something's always been up with him," I murmured.

He looked up at me then, and I met his eyes, unblinking. "It's true. When I first got here, about a week after I'd moved in, Tom got grounded for sneaking out of the house and not telling anyone where he was going. You remember?"

Ned blinked quickly, three times in a row. "Yeah."

"When he came back, he had a backpack and a tent-"

"-He told everyone he'd just wanted to go camping-"

"-and he was in the backyard the whole time. Your dad didn't listen to him. He sent Tom up to his room and told him to come down when he was ready to apologize."

"A week later. He didn't apologize."

"I'll always remember that. I thought your father was going to rip his head off."

"Weird," Ned was looking at me as if he'd just seen my eyes change color. "I'd completely forgotten."

"Maybe we should try being nicer to him. Maybe that would get somewhere."

Then we both fell silent. Neither of us had ever been mean.

* * *

><p><em>when I wake up and the sun is shining and I just lay in bed<em>**  
><strong>_when people laugh so hard they can't breathe and it makes you laugh just looking at them_**  
><strong>_babies in sweaters_**  
><strong>_stick figures_**  
><strong>_Civil War documentaries_**  
><strong>_The Lion King_**  
><strong>_Peach ice cream_**  
><strong>_Ned _

I stared down at the last word, suddenly terribly embarrassed. An urge rose up to look around me and check to see if anyone had seen, though of course no one had. The tree could keep my secret.

I took my pen, poised to cross Ned's name out, but balked. I _did _love him, and it shouldn't have been embarrassing. He was my only real family, beside Billy (and Susie, who I hadn't seen in years). We'd grown up together, supported each other, believed in each was no reason Dr Grant or anyone else couldn't know about how I felt about Ned. Tom certainly knew, he'd mentioned it that time in the kitchen. I loved Ned like family. No reason to be ashamed. **  
><strong>We were practically brother and sister. That particular thought made me cringe.

I didn't want to think of him as my brother.

I thought about him in the parlor, trying to take his mind off Mary by taking care of his mother. He took care of everyone, especially me. Especially Tom. I thought of that morning when we'd carried Tom in, how Ned had looked before I'd woken him up, how gentle he'd been carrying Tom up the stairs, how he'd taken Tom's shoes and jacket off and tried to make him comfortable. The thought hurt, though I didn't know why. I thought of his sincerity, his goodness, the way he cut sandwiches in half diagonally with a spatula. The way he wore t-shirts without logos on them, the way he kept his hair out of his face. I admired Ned. He was the best person I knew, how could I not admire him? How could I not love him? Why shouldn't he be on my list?

This was not the point of the exercise. I was supposed to find the good in things, not find more things to panic over. This was supposed to be easy. A normal person wouldn't have had a problem with it.

A normal person also wouldn't be in love with a surrogate brother, either. The thought stopped me in my tracks. I was not, _was not_in love with Ned.

Except that I clearly was.

I dropped my head into my hands, sighing in frustration, sighing in fear, sighing in pain, just sighing. There was no way Ned would ever think of me like that, no way that I could ever expect him to want to...this was stupid. I was stupid.

I lifted my head back up, looking at the first, crisp page of the notebook, the one I had ruined already, in the first minute of the first exercise, and, with a solid determination, crossed off Ned's name so no one would ever know it was there.

Except for me, and I was good at keeping secrets.


	12. Shallow Water

The sun was bright, the way it had been all week, but somehow it looked gray. Not just _looked_, but _felt_. I was too hot; I was sweating. The humidity felt claustrophobic and I couldn't breathe. It didn't change the fact that I felt cold, clammy to my bones.

I lay out in the sun, the heat beating down in waves over my face. Normally I would have shielded my eyes with my elbow, my arm bent over my face, but now I was staring directly up at the sun in its gray sky. That was how I knew. _I am dreaming._

The realization happened, and a moment later I heard the screaming. Ned's voice was screaming, screaming for help, screaming for me to come. Was I the only one there? I didn't notice getting to my feet, or running across the lawn, because I somehow I was just _in_ the house, running through empty room after empty room. There was no one else there. They'd left us behind.

I was on our floor, on the other side of the house, and Ned's voice, now sobbing, led me to Tom's room. I darted in, but the room was empty. The bathroom door was open, and as I went in, I saw Ned sitting on the floor by the edge of the tub, sobbing, his eyes red-rimmed, and I saw with horror that there was a body in the tub. Even though it was face-down, improbably face-down for such a shallow tub, I knew it was Tom.

I screamed then, a loud shriek that tore at my esophagus and thrust my stomach into my ribcage, and because I was dreaming I knew that the only way to escape the horror was to wake up, so I did.

I woke up screaming.

There were birds singing outside, but the sky was still dark. It was three, maybe four in the morning, then. The curtains that I loved to watch dance were blowing in the wind, but they disturbed me. The calmness of my bed disturbed me. The birds disturbed me. I would never get to sleep after that.

I sat up, pushing the covers off of me, slipping my feet into the slippers it was really too hot to wear and moving as quickly as I could to the door. Just stepping down the hallway as almost too much for me. I almost ran, but I didn't know if running would be worse, because I had run in my dream. I wanted to be outside as badly as I wanted anything, but there was something else I needed to do first.

Tom's door was well-oiled, but it shuddered a little as I pushed it open. I didn't have to step into the room to see that he was there, on his bed, and I didn't need to get closer to hear the steady, even breathing to know he was alive, but still I stepped closer anyway. My heart was still pounding, and I could feel jitters running up and down my spine. Had it been the future? Was that what that had been, some kind of premonition? Impossible. Tom couldn't drown in his own bathtub; he couldn't even stretch out full length in it. It had been a dream, just a bad dream, and nothing more. I had known that even when I was sleeping.

It felt awkward to be sitting there, watching Tom sleep, so I turned around, and tiptoed out into the hallway. I made my way downstairs as fast as I could without tripping over myself, and then out the side door, and across the dew-soaked lawn. I left my wet slippers on the grass and, barefoot, made my way down the driveway, picking my way over stones. The soles of my feet were tender.

I didn't look up until I got to the end of the driveway, all the way away from the house. I had gone off the grounds a lot, of course, but it was too early, and I was too afraid to walk along the road alone. Instead, I leaned against one of the brick pillars that marked the entrance to Mansfield, and gazed out over the road. I could see the buildings of the campus from here-the dorms and the science center and the chapel, then further away the performance building and the languages building. Ned had pointed them out to me the way one would point out constellations. I had never set foot on the campus itself.

It had been a dream. Just a dream. I'd had dreams before, some of them bad, some of them terrible, in fact. Dreams had woken me up in terror. But even knowing that it felt like the first nightmare I had ever had, and the only dream I would ever have again. And I had to resist the urge to go back to Tom's room and make sure, make _certain_, that he was really breathing. And then I would go to Ned and check that he hadn't been crying, and then it would all be-

"Fawn?" The voice came from beside me, so suddenly that I shrieked and almost fell as I turned. Henry Crawford, his blonde hair strangely luminous, held up his hands to calm me. "Whoa, God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle-are you okay?" He reached out to steady me, then stepped away, one, two, three paces. His crisp shirt was a little mussed, but it made him look softer, and for some reason I liked that.

I was breathing hard, but I was breathing. "Fine. I'm fine." I tried not to show how much it surprised me that I had spoken, but he blinked, and I shut my mouth with a snap.

"I'm sorry, I-I was making a lot of noise, I thought you'd heard me." He glanced down at my feet, shuffling in the scrubby grass by the pillar. "What happened?"

I would have expected him to ask me what I thought I was doing, that it was too early for me to be out of bed. I would have expected him to talk down to me. He spent so much time with Mireille, after all.

For some reason the thought of Mireille made me angry. If Tom were drowning, would she try to save him? And this man n front of me, Henry Crawford, would he even blink an eye? I thought of Norris, the ten people who had showed up at his funeral, the way they had already forgotten about him. What did this person care about me or anything else?

I had never felt contempt before. I had never known what it felt like, but I knew now, and now all my rage was focused disproportionately, piled unfairly, on Henry Crawford.

"None of your business," I spat. I didn't even take a moment to notice how bizarre it felt to speak to him, a stranger, without pausing.

He recoiled as if I'd hit him, raising his hands higher in surrender. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." he turned away from me, making as if to head up the driveway, then hesitated, and turned back. "Have I done something to you? Killed your puppy or something, hurt you somehow?"

I sighed, leaning back against the pillar. "Nothing. You haven't done anything. To me."

"Yeah. I know. So what's with the attitude?" He folded his arms across his chest, peering down at me, glowering.

I deflated suddenly, as suddenly as I'd snapped. "Sorry."

There was a moment of perfect silence. I didn't glance up at him, and he was so quiet I thought he had slipped away as stealthily as he'd approached. But he spoke again, and his voice was much softer than it had been before.

"Fawn. What happened?"

I looked up at him again. He was frowning still, but I didn't think he was angry, and at the very least he wasn't angry with me. There was concern in his eyes as well, but for the most part he was calm, waiting for me to explain the way one would wait for the inevitable. I felt myself melt a bit more, or maybe my anger dissipated, or maybe I was starting to feel how early it was, how tired I was. I didn't like him, and I certainly didn't like what he and Mireille were doing, but he hadn't deserved to be snapped at. He deserved and explanation, and it would have to come from me.

So I looked back up at him, and I took a breath, then another one. "Sorry. Bad dream," was all I could get out, but it was something at least. I felt my throat clench, and I swallowed a few times to try to relax it away.

He raised an eyebrow. "It must have been a really bad one, then."

I nodded. He nodded in return, then stepped back to lean against the opposite pillar, his arms still crossed over his chest. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I looked at him in surprise, and he laughed, throwing his head back. "Man, you really don't like me, do you? I'm not a monster, you know."

When he laughed he reminded me a little of Mary, but when he looked at me he had none of her fierceness, none of that focus that made me uncomfortable. I breathed and breathed again, and my throat opened enough for me to say, "I know."

"Oh good," he said, looking amused. "Well as long as we have that out of the way..." his face sobered a bit, and he said, "So do you want to? Talk about it?"

I tried to tell him that it didn't matter. I tried to tell him that it was just a dream. I tried to tell him that I was sorry I'd been rude, but it really was just something with me, in my head, and that talking about it would make me more anxious than not talking about it. I tried to say that if there was anyone I would talk to about my dream, it wouldn't be him, no offense, but it just wouldn't be. Henry Crawford was a stranger to me. I couldn't share things like that with a stranger. I couldn't even share them with my best friend. How could I tell Ned that I'd dreamed his brother had drowned? No, no, it was best, I tried to say, that we just leave it alone.

But still, thank you for your concern. And I'm sorry again for my rudeness.

That was what I tried to say. What came out of my mouth was more of a strangled squeak before my throat closed off completely and I coughed a little, choking on my weakness. There was a moment, and I tried to speak, that Henry Crawford's eyes widened, and his face became more and more serious as he watched me struggle into silence.

Embarrassed, burning with humiliation, I turned away from him, wanting to run away as fast as possible but so tired that I wanted to fall back into my bed and sleep, dreamlessly, for days. _Oh, God._

"Wait, wait, wait," he called, but I was off, I was walking down the driveway. I remembered how in my dream I had suddenly appeared in the house without having to cross the long distance of the lawn to get there, and I wished I could have that power. The drive seemed interminable, and I thought I could feel Henry Crawford's judgement burning into my back.

He caught up to me easily, and fell in stride next to me, but not too close, as we approached the house. He didn't say anything, and God knows I didn't say anything, but I found myself grateful for his silence. Mary might have tried to cover it up with a story or a promise of some kind. Henry Crawford didn't seem to see the need for that.

The path diverged, one way to Mansfield proper and the other to the gatehouse, and he cupped his hand around my elbow, bringing me up short. I couldn't look at him, I couldn't bring myself to, so I looked at a button on his shirt instead. It gleamed in the light that illuminated the side door.

"Are you gonna be okay?" His voice was softer, here closer to other people.

I did look at his face then, and again my surprise seemed to amuse him, but he just smiled a little, clearly waiting for an answer. I nodded, and despite myself brought a hand up to his arm and gave him a short squeeze of thanks. I certainly hadn't earned his concern, not with the way I'd talked to him.

He watched me for a moment longer, then dropped his hand, my own falling with it. "Sweet dreams, Fawn." Then he turned away and walked out of the circle of light, walked off toward the Grant's house, and disappeared from sight.

I went back to bed, and I did dream again, but this time my dreams were of a completely different kind. I woke up later in a better mood, but no less disturbed.

* * *

><p>"It's called <em>Party Castles<em>? Are you serious?" Ned didn't even try to conceal his disapproval.

"Yes, brother mine, it is indeed called Party Castles. And yes, yes, yes, it's a reality show, and you can sneer all you like, but it's a fucking hit, and the people'll eat this place up with a fucking spoon." Tom's arms spread wide, taking in the whole front of the house, then came together to form a small rectangle in front of him, a tiny silver screen. "I mean, just look at this place! And who the hell has heard of it?"

"Everyone, when we're done," Yates put in, rising up on his toes in pleasure.

"Yeah, good, because it's not like an internationally-acclaimed university gets enough press as it is." I glanced at Ned in surprise at his tone, but he took no notice of me. It wasn't like him to be so sarcastic.

"I'm not talking about the school, Nedward, I'm talking about the house. They're different, you see." Tom's back was turned to me, but I imagined I could see his lip curling just ever so slightly. Tom had felt contempt strongly and often, it would seem. "I want to show the world the house, and how amazing it is."

"Aren't there other shows? Other channels? National Geographic, or PBS, or something?"

"Yes, there are, but they're boring. This place isn't boring."

Now Ned did glance at me, and sighed just slightly. I raised my eyebrows, giving him a sympathetic smile. He turned back to Tom. "You mean the money isn't boring."

Tom rounded on him, but casually, his hands in his pockets. "So what if I do? There's more than one way to earn a living, you know." He tilted his head to one side, "Or are you just worried that Miss Fancypants will be shown the darker side of the Bertram family?"

I glanced nervously from one of them to the other. Since his arrival, Tom had refused to call Mary by her first name, but had instead opted to call her by a series of nicknames that were just polite enough to be marginally endearing when in her presence, but always turned mocking when she wasn't in the room. Normally Ned would have corrected him calmly, but nothing about this was normal anymore, and Ned's hackles were raised.

"No, I'm just worried about what this is going to do to the house. Our privacy. And do you have anyone's permission to do this? Mom's? Dad's?"

Tom smiled a shit-eating grin that would have stabbed Ned in the ribs if it could reach that far. "Got it. Mom signed a permission form and a waiver last night."

"A waiver? Why would we need to sign a waiver?"

"In case of a fucking tornado, Ned. In case the ground opens up underneath us. In case fucking Voldemort comes out of the fucking sky and decides you're fucking Harry Potter fucking reborn. Okay? It's a standard thing."  
>"Standard," chirped Yates, rising up on his toes in pleasure. "Totally normal contract for reality shows."<p>

"We don't have anything to worry about here, okay? It's just a fucking TV show."

"Just a TV show," Yates said, "We have absolutely nothing to worry about."

If Ned wasn't going to strangle Yates, I actually thought I was going to come close to it.

"Well fine. I'm not doing it," Ned crossed his arms in front of his chest, driving the point home.

"I never thought you would, Neddy-Ned." The grin was back, but full of triumph. Tom turned to me, almost as an afterthought, " And Fawn, you can sit this round out, too, if you want."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks." I could think of nothing I'd like less than being on TV.

Tom shook his head in wonder, "I don't think I'll ever get used to that." He reached out a hand and ruffled my hair, before swinging his arm around my shoulders and pulling me to his side. "Let me show you what I was thinking for rearranging the furniture..." he led me away from Ned, but I turned my head to glance at him. His eyes were on the ground, the muscles in his jaw working. I could see the frown line in the center of his forehead. Beside him was Yates, almost tip-toe in happiness.


	13. Open and Close

"Okay, now, from the diaphragm. Ready?"

I nodded, the back of my head rubbing the old carpet. My hands were on my stomach, so I could where I was breathing from.

"Okay, now on the count of three, we'll do it together," he said from his position on the floor, just a few feet away. We'd had to move the chairs against the wall to make room for us lying flat on the ground.

"Three...two...one...go!" He sent the air pushing from his belly, making an odd sound somewhere between a foghorn and a Buddhist monk in meditation. I followed suit, trying not to laugh. With him being ridiculous, I didn't feel as ridiculous myself. My sound was less convincing, though, and he said, "Again, again. Really feel it!"

I sucked in a breath, pushing out my stomach muscles rather than my lungs, the way Dr Grant  
>had shown me. I pushed out all the air again, this time louder, but now as loud as him.<p>

"Again!" We honked again. "Again!" And again.

"Bet you twenty bucks I can do it louder!" He sucked in his breath, then pushed out a sound like Babe the Blue Ox. I was a second behind him, matching him in volume.

"Can't just tie with me, Price, you've gotta try and beat me. Twenty bucks says you can't!"

"I don't have twenty bucks!" I said, laughing, before breathing in again and honking as loud as I could, louder than I had ever been in my life. Dr Grant scoffed, "Gotta do better than that, Price. Much, much better. I'm a honking champion. Gold Medal. Turin Olympics. Bet you didn't know that."

We honked again. "Honking's a winter sport?"

We honked. "What else do you have to do in winter? Better than eating cake and getting really fat."

We honked. "I don't know. I like cake."

We honked. "Okay, Price, last one. Winner takes all?"

I nodded, panting slightly. "No cheating."

"I would never!" I laughed at his tone.

"No letting me win?"

"Now that I would never do."

"Okay. Three...two...one...go!" We honked, and then the honking turned into more of a shout as we pushed the last of the air out of our lungs. I ended up laughing hysterically, coughing a little as I pulled air back into my lungs.

"Whoo!" Dr Grant pulled himself up on his feet, panting. "I think I owe you twenty dollars, Fawn. Personally, though I think you have an unfair advantage."

"Oh really?" I used a chair to help pull me to my feet. "What's that?"

"Young lungs. Strengthened by exercise."

"But not by talking,so you have the real advantage."

"You seem to be doing just fine, considering the first words you've ever said  
>to me were 'I don't have twenty bucks.'"<p>

I blinked, surprised, and he raised his eyebrows in amusement. "I know, right? Pretty cool." He grinned at me as I grinned at him.

"Pretty cool," I agreed.

"So tell me a little bit about yourself, Fawn Price. I've been dying to know. Come, spin me a tale. Weave me a narrative."

"What do you want to know?"

"Oh, the usual. Where you were born, what ice cream's your favorite, which Ninja Turtle you like the best. Your hopes, dreams, aspirations. The little stuff."

"Boston, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, I never watched the Ninja Turtles, so I don't know."

"Wait, when were you born?" I told him. He pretended to die of a heart attack. He straightened up as I laughed out loud. "And the other stuff? Hopes, dreams, aspirations?"

I paused, uncertain. But we'd been having such a good time, and I didn't want to be the one who ruined it. "Umm, well, my dreams are..." For a moment, I remembered Tom, floating in the bathtub. I shook the thought away. "It depends. Yesterday I dreamed that cats took over the world, and then the king of the cats burst into a thousand eyeballs, so..."

"Nice. Cats into eyeballs. That's pretty classic. Of course Freud would say that it means that you're in love with your mother, but..."

"Who's Freud?"

This time it was him who blinked. He shook his head a second later, waving his hand in an 'and so on and so on' motion, "German psychologist, had a thing about everything being sexual and weird. Sorry," he went on, "sometimes I forget that normal people didn't go study people's inner urges."

I watched him a few seconds more, certain, somehow, that I'd messed up, but not sure how. He leaned in, like a child hearing an exciting story.

"So? Hopes? Aspirations?"

I cleared my throat, stalling for time. My throat was hard to clear. I cleared it again, and said, "Well, I aspire to be...It's kind of..." I teetered for a moment, undecided. Should I tell him that the night before my nightmare, I had snuck onto Ned's laptop and Googled Antoni Gaudi and Brunelleschi and Hausmann, that I'd looked at building after building after building? How could I tell him that I wanted to build buildings when I could barely do math, and I didn't know who this Freud person was. How could I tell him that? He was nicer than other people, and he liked me well enough. I didn't think I could bear him laughing at me. "I...don't really know," I finished weakly.

He sat and waited for me to keep going, and I stammered, "W-w-well, it's just that until now I didn't know that I'd even get a chance to do anything. Since you kind of need to speak to be someone."

"Actually, that's not true. Mutism isn't that rare, to be honest. And disabilities don't always have to be debilitating. Amputees can be bodybuilders, you know. Wheelchair-bound guys can be fantastic basketball players. You don't really need to speak. But do you want to?"

I watched him for a few moments, then watched my fingers interlace. "Yes."

"Why?"

I looked up at him. He regarded me evenly, not hinting at any thought or emotion, and waited.

"Well...I mean...it's a thing that people do. And I don't. And it's not that I can't, because if I couldn't, that would be one thing, but..."

"But?"

I pushed my fingers back and forth, then pulled them apart, flexing my hands, then laced them together again, taking a moment to breathe. I could feel my throat closing again, and the more I fought against it, the more it tightened. Dr Grant watched my hands in silence, waiting for me to answer. When I didn't, he turned away and picked up a magazine, then handed it to me, followed closely by a pen. It was open to the crossword section. He picked up another magazine for himself, and quietly went to work.

I had never liked crosswords, since I didn't know any complicated words and I never got the clues, but Sudoku was a different story. Trying to breathe naturally around the lump in my throat, I pushed numbers around in the squares, waiting for inspiration to come. Finally, after five or ten minutes, my throat relaxed, my breathing slowed, and my brain calm, I said, "But I don't want to be crazy. I don't want to be a freak. I can speak, I just won't speak. That's weird. I don't want to be weird."

He had turned his eyes to me, his head still tilted down from where he'd been staring down at the page. The trademark humor in his eyes that I had come to expect was gone, and he watched me gravely for a moment. I started to worry that he wasn't going to say anything, and somehow the thought made me anxious enough to twist my pen between my fingers nervously.

His eyes went back down to the page, and when he spoke, his tone was brusque. "If that's what you want." He didn't continue, didn't elaborate.

Strangely disappointed, I finished the Sudoku and left, the happiness that had permeated our meeting seeping slowly away.


	14. Triangles

"Here." The popsicle hit my lap before I fully registered Ned sitting down next to me. I set his laptop off to the side and opened the sweaty plastic wrapper, careful to put it directly into the trash can. Ned didn't have the same regard for his table, though, leaving his wrapper on a two-day-old newspaper, turning the President's face an interesting shade of orange.

"Mango?"

"You know it," he raised his popsicle to me in a salute. "What are you up to? Talking to Billy?"

I looked from Ned to his laptop and back, a bit nervously. He noticed. "What's up?"

"Well, I've been...I just Googled Party Castles," I admitted, wincing in anticipation of his reaction. He'd been unusually touchy around this subject for the past couple days, made even worse by the appearance of the expansive camera crew and twitchy, sweaty director. I had seen Ned's jaw clench more in three days than I had ever done before.

The director had had us all assemble in the front hall, though Tom had had to almost drag Ned bodily to get him there at all. Blinking with an awe-inspiring rapidity, the director, Guy Fearsome, as he liked to be called, had wasted no time in dividing us up into pairs.

"You, you and...you," he muttered, bringing Julia and Yates to stand next to each other, then standing back to admire his work, "yes, yes, yes, okay, now you-" he pointed to Mary, then pointed to the spot he wanted her to stand. She hitched her mouth up sarcastically, but did as she was told. "You aaaaaaaaaaaaand, let's see now, you," he said grabbing hold of Tom's elbow.

Tom chuckled, "Why don't you try my baby brother instead," he said, jerking his head to Ned.

Guy Fearsome blinked twelve times, then said, "Well, yes, I think that'd be cool. The two of you are basically interchangeable, aren't you?"

He moved on so quickly Tom didn't even have time to laugh again. Ned, when directed to stand next to Mary, shook his head. "I'm not doing it."

There was a quick moment of silence, cut through by a vigorous roll of the eyes from both Fearsome and Tom. "Fine," the director said, shrugging, "it doesn't even matter, but I need someone to pair with this fine lady," he added, looking Mary up and down in a manner that was something other than neighborly interest.

Ned stiffened, opened his mouth to protest, but Fearsome had moved on again, snapping his fingers behind him. "You, what's your name, Tim?"

"Tom."

"Whatever. You're with her, it looks like."

"Nope. I'm solo."

"Fine, fine, then she's with this guy, over here," he pointed at Henry, who shrugged apologetically. "Brother."

"Fine, fine, fine, then this guy," he threw a hand in Rush's direction.

Rush stepped closer to Mary. "Engaged."

That brought Guy Fearsome up short, but he swooped in again. "Oh, engaged. Engaged, I like that, I do, I do, I do, but here's the thing, friend, it's a lot less interesting when there's no challenge, you know, no, like, no, competition. If you two just sit around and act all engaged, that's not going to make people want to watch you. There have to be struggles. So instead," he said, backing up again, framing with his hands the way Tom had done, "we're going to make a love triangle. Bear with me, hubby-to-be, it's just for the cameras, right sweetheart?" He chucked Mireille under the chin, and she made a face like she was trying to keep a mouthful of sour milk from going anywhere. "Soooooooo, awesome, love triangle it is, but baby girl," he said, turning back to Mark and reaching out a hand to almost touch her shoulder, "you're gonna have to have a man. Sorry. Statistics say that Timothy here can stay single at the end, but you've gotta get with someone. Can't have two single people at the end. It's science."

Ned, to my left, was sending judgment off in waves. I edged away from him. Tom, on the other hand, turned to him, gave a little smile, and said, "Neddy-boy? Last chance?" The look in his eyes and on his face almost made me want to tell Ned to change his mind, but then he'd be going back on what he'd said, and nothing would make me ask him to do that.

Ned shook his head. Tom hid any disappointment.

I sighed, bending my back a little to get some cracks out, and Guy Fearsome's eyes fell, blinkingly, on me. "Helloooooooo, didn't notice you there. What's your name, sweetheart?"

He hadn't even asked Mary her name, and anyone could see that he'd like Mary. I looked up at him, apprehension widening my eyes, and fought against taking a step back.

"That's Fawn," said Tom, and for once he didn't seem so triumphant. "She's out, too."

"You sure?" Guy didn't turn to look at him when he spoke. "She's a little young, but she definitely has that waif thing down. All the nerdy girls would totally be into seeing her. Is she a relative?"

"No," said Tom.

"Yes," said Ned.

Guy blinked up at them both, smirking, then turned back to me. "Which one is it, sweetheart? Are you related to these guys? Should we find you someone else, maybe? I might even break up that love triangle for you, put you with Freckles over there."

Henry, Freckles, shot him a look of intense amusement. He hated Guy Fearsome.

Guy watched me the way Julia had once watched ants in an ant farm she'd made, and the longer he watched me, the more uncomfortable I got. He was waiting for me to say something. Even if I'd had the voice, I didn't think I would give him the satisfaction, not with that look on his face.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Ned stepping in, but Tom got there first, clapping a jovial hand on Guy Fearsome's shoulder. "Nah, man, I told you she's out. She and baby bro will just have to sit on the sidelines. We'll find someone for Mary. Come show me what you want to do with the place."

Guy Fearsome sent one last look back at me. He didn't blink.

Now, in Ned's room, I waited for his reaction to my searching.

He made a valiant attempt not to roll his eyes, but ultimately failed. "Oh, God, why?" His voice was dry and sardonic, just like Tom's.

I smoothed the knees of my jeans down a few times and licked my lips before answering, "Well, I wanted to see what it was that's going to happen, you know."

"Is."

"What?"

"What it is that's going to happen." His voice was so casual he could have been reminding me to bring my umbrella on a cloudy day, but it brought me up short. He had never, not once in the history of our friendship, corrected my grammar or tried to change the way I spoke.

I took a lick of my popsicle, then another one. "Is. What it is that's going to happen. I'm sorry." A thought occurred to me. "You haven't watched the show?"

He threw one of his arms along the back of the couch, so that his fingertips landed some centimeters to the right of my ear. "It's really not my thing. Did you like it?"

I tried to laugh. "Not really. No. Everyone was kissing in it, and they threw this big party and added up all the money it cost to make it happen, and then some random guy broke thousands of dollars worth of their stuff. Everyone ends up with someone. Doesn't seem realistic."

"People kissing isn't realistic?" He cocked an amused eyebrow to me, nursing his popsicle. I tried not to look at his mouth, tried not to look at his eyes. Tried, and failed.

"I...well, I wouldn't know. But for something that's supposed to be reality..."

"Reality TV. Not reality."

"Isn't there not supposed to be a difference?" That particular fact had been bothering me for a while now. Weren't shows about real people supposed to show how those people really were? Isn't that what happened?

Ned gave me a look much like the one Dr Grant had given me before talking about how people wanted to marry their mothers, and again I knew I'd made some kind of mistake. I bit down on my popsicle and turned my head away, desperate to be out of this conversation before I gave away just how uneducated I was.

Apparently he felt the same way, because he changed the subject abruptly. "Want to go into town with me today?"

I turned to him, suddenly excited. I rarely went into town when shops were open and there were people out and about, and even then it had been months since I'd gone there with Ned, and it was always more fun to have someone to spend my time with. "Can we?"

He smiled then, his big, genuine, happy smile that erased the sarcasm from his brow and the tightness from his jaw and made him my Ned again. "Absolutely. We can go to the music store if you want, and this time I'll let you spend hours there, and then maybe get some lunch?"

"Sounds good. What're you in the mood for?"

"Greek?"

"Italian?"

"Ice Cream?"

"Armenian?"

"Armenian."

"Perfect!" I clapped my hands together. He laughed and poked me in the side.

"Definitely perfect. Way better than being-" his door opened, and Mary walked in.

"Oh, there you are! Thank God, I thought I was gonna go crazy without you two." If she hadn't expected me in Ned's room, her face gave nothing away. She settled herself on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, facing us, her face slightly flushed, her eyes bright. "Don't go out there, seriously. It's like a war zone."

I watched Ned's eyes flick nervously to the door, then back. He'd probably come up the back stairs, giving the common areas a wide berth. "War zone, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. Guy shot all the exterior stuff already, at least for now, so he's getting ready to do the inside stuff, and that's just a lot of moving furniture to new places and breaking holes in the walls-"

"WHAT?" Ned leapt to his feet so suddenly it made me flinch backward. Mary looked up at him calmly, a wry grin pulling up one side of her mouth.

"Well, not actually putting holes in the actual walls. They're bringing in plaster things that look like your walls but have holes in them, and debris and dust and stuff, because apparently you're going through a renovation. Don't know if you know."

"Are we?"

"Oh, yeah. You're really not sure you'll have it done in time for your party date. It's a big deal, not gonna lie."

"God," Ned sat back down, head in his hands. "What a disaster."

"You don't know the worst of it. They're bringing in some guy, some friend of Tom's, to be my love interest. It was really awkward meeting him. Guy 'Fearsome'," she made quotation marks with her fingers, "tells me we're going to be desperately secretly in love with each other."

"You don't have to do this, you know," Ned pointed out.

"Why not?" she said flippantly, shrugging her shoulders, "it's not like I have anything better to do. Though I guess you're right," she added, tilting her head to the left, "and I know that he wouldn't be the person I'd choose for myself."

There was a charged silence. I wondered what would happen if I left. Would it be any different from if I stayed? Then Mary turned to me, flashed me her brilliant smile, and said, "Actually, I came looking for you, Fawn. I was wondering if you'd help me."

Me? The question was clear on my face, and she laughed at my surprise. "Yes, you, silly. I need your help with my lines."

My eyebrows shot up. She laughed again. "I know, it's supposed to be a reality show, but I still get lines. Tell me how that's fair, and I'll give you a million dollars. Just...you don't have to say anything out loud," she said, reaching into her pocket, "but just nod your head if I get them right. Kay?" She handed me a piece of paper, folded into fourths. When I had it open and was ready, she started.

The actual lines were instantly forgettable, which is why I've forgotten them. What I haven't forgotten is the painstaking slowness with which I read them to check on her part, the way she and Ned watched me, and tried not to watch me, as I got to the end of the line. I haven't forgotten the way Mary looked at me when she spoke, as if I were the man she was desperately in love with, as if nothing else in the world mattered, as if we were the only two people alive. When she reached out a hand to put it on my knee, I almost jumped out of my skin, but at the same time it seemed to make sense. If someone were so in love with someone else, of course she would want to touch them, even a little, just on the knee. I haven't forgotten the way Ned stiffened, the way he crossed his legs, laced his fingers together.

We were never going to get that lunch. That lunch had been doomed from the start. When we reached the end of the page, Mary and I, and I handed Mary back her paper with a nod at all being as it should be, Mary smiled beatifically at me, folded the paper up, and pushed herself to a standing position.

"Thanks, Fawn, baby. I just needed to be prepared to face the love of my love," and she turned to leave.

Ned moved so quickly he seemed not to move at all. One moment, he was seated next the me, the next he was on his feet, and words were tumbling out of his mouth. "It's probably better if I do it, not him. The other guy. Tom's friend. Tom's friends aren't exactly known for their discretion, you know."

Mary, at the door, smiled slowly. "You'll really do it?"  
>Ned breathed, brushing his hands over the sides of his legs. "I'll really do it."<p>

Mary winked at me, then turned back to Ned. Suddenly, she was serious, even with a smile still on her face. "I knew you'd never abandon me." They watched each other for a moment, until Mary turned and walked out the door, clicking it shut softly behind her.

Ned and I watched the air for a second or two, then, without turning, he said, "I think we'll have to raincheck on lunch. I'm sorry."

"You're really going to do this?"

"I said I would. Now I have to."

"You also said you wouldn't," I pointed out, more confused than malicious. "Is it because-"

He turned then to look at me, his face hardened, washed by so many emotions it was hard to look at it for too long, "Because what?"

I swallowed the question I had been about to ask, then thought about every question I wanted to ask after that. None of them would do. I didn't want to make him defensive now. "Never mind. It was a stupid question. Forget it."

He was watching me now, his brow wrinkled. I had been watched too much in the last few days. His voice was quiet, the way you'd speak to a baby animal, "None of your questions have ever been stupid, Fawn."

Heat flooded through me then, making the very tips of my toes shiver, but I didn't let him see that. I wanted to ask him every question I had ever had, but I didn't let him see that. I wanted to reach out, so casually, and touch him on the knee, but I didn't let him see that. The sudden, inexplicable  
>prickle of tears at the back of my eyes caught me by surprise, but I didn't let him see that, not the tears or the surprise.<p>

Instead I smiled, the kind of wry, half-smile I'd seen Mary use, all pulled to one side. It had looked better on her. It felt silly on me. "Thanks, Ned. Now I think you should go, before all hell breaks loose."

I expected him to turn around and rush through the door, but before he left he turned to me, and his hand came up to hover right over the crown of my head until he bent down to kiss my forehead, and the hand came to rest on my hair. His lips felt like nothing I had ever needed to put into words: like fire, like a blanket wrapped around me, like being out in the cold, like being on the top of a cliff, like lying out in the sun, like all those things. When he took them away, the feeling lingered.

He didn't.


	15. Act of God

Henry Crawford was electrifying. There was something in his face, something in his voice, that told you that he was telling the absolute truth; the secret expression of the deepest part of his soul was laid out bare, only for you. I hadn't seen, at first, what Mireille and Julia were fighting over. I could see it clearly now.

The camera panned across Henry's face, the high cheek bones, the freckles, the expressive brown eyes. His auburn hair was in disarray, and the look of desperate earnestness he was giving Mireille made me believe, truly believe, that he had run his fingers through it in a moment of frustration over his one true love, engaged to someone else. I believed that, even having seen the hair stylist muss it in the first place. God only knew what he would do to the women of America.

That week had brought in changes. Guy Fearsome had put Ned in hot pink polos and embroidered khakis, which had made Tom laugh himself hoarse. Mireille wore a triumphant, flushed expression, Rush one of dazed anxiety. But the general changes to the people I knew was nothing like what happened to Henry and Mary Crawford when they were on camera.

Henry leaned in toward Mireille, and the kiss they shared was one of such tender sweetness that I almost forgot about Rush, standing right next to me. These two were lovers, truly. Henry Crawford had brought her out of her cold, WASPy shell, had shown her what true passion was with his sweet, sensitive devotion. This was love, this was pure, this was real.

I didn't trust a minute of it.

Henry Crawford was an actor. That much was clear. The way he lit up on camera was something extraordinary. He drew the eye, he took the breath away, he had you and everyone you knew in the palm of his hand. But he was an actor, and it was his act that was persuasive. I had seen the way he looked at Mireille, the way he looked at Julia, and even sometimes the way he'd look at me. I didn't think he was really in love with Mireille. Mary's warning from the first time we'd met, about Henry being a terribly womanizer, came to mind. Maybe this passionate, earnest man was what women saw when he looked at them. Maybe it was only when they weren't looking that he lost interest.

I shouldn't have gone to watch the filming. I should have hidden in my room. I couldn't stand to watch this, watch how Mireille blushed and flirted, the way Rush fumed and pouted. And more than anything, I didn't want to watch Henry Crawford seducing someone in front of me. This week had been confusing enough without that.

Maybe I was torturing myself. Earlier that day, I had watched as Mary Crawford became the perfect match for Ned in the blink of an eye, watched as she supported the dreams that Guy Fearsome had made up for him, listened without judgment to his problems, held his hand when he needed comfort. I watched Ned fall in love with her in the middle of the commandeered living room while shooting a reality television show. And now here I was, watching Henry Crawford do the same thing to Mireille.

I wasn't a believer like Ned, but I admit I prayed for an act of God to come and interrupt the filming. I wanted my house back, the house that I had never before considered to be mine. I wanted my friend back, I wanted my life back, wanted space and silence, and most of all, most of all I wanted my feelings back. I wanted to take back the wave of jealousy I had felt watching Mary Crawford take Ned's hand, even though I had held his hand a thousand times before. I wanted to take back the hate that I felt for her as she put her hand on his shoulder, leaned against him, and told him that everything would be alright. I wasn't someone who hated people. I'd thought that I didn't know how to do it. Now it was twisting inside of me, tainting everything I thought and everything I did.

It wasn't her fault. She didn't know how I felt. Even if she had, I had no claim over Ned's affections. Ned didn't love me, not the way he was starting to love Mary. If two people cared about each other, they should be together. They should be. Of course. My feelings, my confusion, shouldn't enter into it. It was my own fault that I had hopes in the first place. I should never have started.

After everyone went inside to go to bed, I sat out on the lawn, looking back up at the house. My eyes traced the corners of the building, its windows, it decorative elements, its very stones, while my mind kept bringing back the kiss that Henry and Mireille had shared. What would it be like to kiss someone like that? What would it be like if someone kissed me? Who would kiss me, the way I was? Henry's lips on Mireille's. Henry's fingers lifting her chin. What was it like to want someone, and to get what you wanted? To open your arms, knowing someone will fall into them?

I was a child compared to these people. I was an infant, taking my first steps. Still unable to speak. What I knew about love and lust could fill no more than a page, no more than a thimble. I didn't understand. I realized then, sitting on the grass, my palms wet with dew, my eyes full of stars, that I would probably never understand. How could I leave this place, when I couldn't even speak? Who else would I ever meet? The next eighteen years of my life stretched out before me, then the next, then the next, and in all of them I was the child I was at that moment, provided for and tolerated by well-meaning patrons.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

The sadness I felt then was too much for tears. I hauled my exhausted body off the grass, silently let myself back into the house. In the mudroom I paused in the middle of taking off my shoes, hearing a noise in the kitchen. And again. Someone was inside. I hesitated, my hand over the doorknob. Should I got to the front? That door made noise when it opened, and I doubted I could turn the key in the heavy lock to get it open in the first place. I just wanted to go to bed. Making up my mind, determined to act before I thought better of it, I turned the doorknob and stepped into the kitchen.

The light was dim, but I could still see Mireille sitting up on the counter, her arms around Henry Crawford's neck. Several buttons of her shirt were undone, and I could see the lacy bra underneath, a frothy pink color. This time Henry's hair really had been mussed by fingers, and Mireille's hands roamed from the top of his head to the sides of his face, to wrap around his shoulders again. Their lips were locked fiercely, passionately, but they broke apart when the door swung shut behind me. I didn't know where to look. I stood frozen, and Mireille's glare made the bottom of my stomach drop down to my shoes.

"What the hell are you looking at?"

I opened my mouth to explain, realized I couldn't, then closed it again.

"Oh, Jesus, here we go," Mireille's voice was thick with derision and something else. "Just spit it out, why don't you?"

Panicked, embarrassed, I glanced at Henry, who was watching me quietly. When I met his gaze, he flicked his eyes toward Mireille, his hands still on her hips, then down at the floor.

It took me three seconds to get to the stairs, ten seconds to climb them, then seven seconds to make the headlong dash to my room, close the door, and prop a chair under the knob. It took considerably longer for my racing heart to calm down. Sleep didn't come until the sky was almost light again.

* * *

><p>Ned took one look at my exhausted face and thrust a cup of coffee into my hands. "Didn't you get any sleep?"<p>

I checked the clock. "Maybe three hours. Maybe."

"Did something happen?" My eyes flicked to Henry first, then Mireille, sitting on opposite sides of the table at the other end of the room. They ignored each other studiously. Of me they took no notice.

I shook my head. "No, just couldn't sleep."

Ned's brow furrowed as he watched me. He glanced back up to the table, following my eyes, and his frown deepened. "What aren't you telling me?"  
>"Nothing." I handed him back the cup of coffee, then stood up.<p>

"Fawn." His eyes were dark with concern, a muscle twitching in his cheek. _Mireille's hand, caressing Henry's cheek, running through his hair._I turned my eyes away, smiled, then looked back.

"Ned, I'm fine. It was just one of those nights." Which kind of night I was referring to, I didn't say. I went back to my room and closed my door, pushing the chair back into its place. I didn't think I could handle Ned being in my room just then. I wondered if I would ever be able to from now on.

I lay in bed most of the day, staring up at the ceiling, hugging my pillow. I didn't have the will to move, didn't have the ability to sleep. The day dragged on and on.

A knock on my door brought me out of my reverie. The sky was dark, my lamp still unlit. Another knock, this time stronger.

"Fawn?" It was Henry Crawford's voice. I sat up on my bed, watching the door. There was another knock. "Fawn? Are you awake?"

I was awake. Should I lie? Pretend I was asleep? Should I let him leave, thinking something that wasn't true?

"Fawn, I know you're awake." He sounded so sure.

"Your aunt needs your help downstairs. She sent me to get you." He let that sink in for a moment. If Nola wanted me, there was nothing I could do to avoid her. She would come up here and knock the door down if she needed to. Would it be worth my dignity to go down without making her come up?

I sighed. I had already humiliated myself several times that week. I might as well be graceful where I could.

The chair made a small scraping sound as it moved away from the door. I placed it against the wall with care. Henry let me open the door, stepping back a bit so we weren't face to face. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I looked at him, thankful once again that I didn't get red in the face. He seemed serenely calm, unflappable. If he were at all embarrassed about last night, I couldn't see it.

"Ned said you looked tired. Looks like he was right. You've got crazy dark circles." He cocked a humorous eyebrow and smiled at me. When I didn't return it, he sobered, and gestured in the direction of the stairs. "They're looking for you down there. Want me to tell them you're asleep?"

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. He grinned. "I've been known to not be a dick in the past. Not all the time, but it's been known to happen."

In the dark of the hallway, away from other people in the house, in front of a man I didn't even like, I breathed in and out once. No one in the world is better than you are. "W-w-why did you c-come up?" My voice came out shaky, with a stutter I'd never had before, but it came out.

He grinned again, casually rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, then back down to look at me. "Oh, you know, change of scenery. Ned wanted to come up himself, but they were just finishing his scene so...and anyway, the company's not too bad, so why not?" I couldn't tell if he was surprised to hear me speak. I guessed it was getting more common now, anyway.

"Do you want to come down?" He leaned against the doorframe, holding his hand out to make a sweeping, welcoming gesture in the silent hall. His face was close to mine, and I took a small step backward, thinking of the look on Mireille's face the night before, the way their lips had been locked together. He noticed the shift, but didn't comment. Instead, he added, "I get the feeling Nola really wants you around right now."

I didn't even try to hide my disbelief, and he laughed. In spite of myself, I smiled back at him. "O-o-o-kay. I'll c-come down." I followed him out into the hall, closing my door quietly behind me. We walked down the stairs in companionable silence, and it was only when we entered the living room that I noticed the tension in the air. Ned's eyes narrowed as Henry led me into the middle of the room, then moved to flop down onto one of the couches.

"Got her," he said. "Can we keep going now?"

I looked from him to Ned and back, confused. Ned opened his mouth to explain, but Nola cut him off. "Julia's dropped out of the show. We need you to do her part."

I gaped at her. Guy Fearsome strode up, throwing an arm companionably around my shoulders. "Fawn, babe. Am I getting that right, Fawn? We need your help for a couple seconds. It doesn't even have to be that big of a deal. You won't even have many lines, or any, or whatever, just stand around and look pretty and...you are over eighteen, yeah?"

The more he spoke, the more alarmed I got, and I glanced wildly around the room, hoping desperately that it was a joke. I would prefer them laughing at me. I looked at Tom, who bore a put-upon expression, and at Mireille and Nola, whose eyes glinted, and at Henry, who had lied to me. Ned's face was serious as he watched me, and Ned would never joke about something like this.

"Maybe we should explain it instead of springing it on her," came Mary's voice from behind me. "It looks like Henry didn't really do a good job in that department." Her voice was disapproving. Henry smirked at her and shrugged, then met my eyes for a moment before looking away. I turned to meet Mary's eyes.  
>"Julia decided last minute that she didn't want in, but we've already done all the other scenes and we talk about her, so it's kind of awkward. We're supposed to be done with everything but the party by tonight, and we don't have time to get anyone else. Please," she caught my hands as I stepped back. "Could you please help us?"<p>

Without words, there was no way to tell her how ridiculous this was. Without words, there was no way to tell her that I couldn't ever do it. Not even if I could have spoken. Not even if they paid me.

"Fawn, you'd better do it," said Mireille.

"It's time you helped out around here," said Nola. Ned glared at her, opened his mouth, then closed it again. He glanced at me, and saw that I'd seen. He looked away.

Tom came up to stand by me. "You know I wouldn't ask if we didn't need your help. I need this," his voice was proud. His eyes were desperate. "Please. I need this. Please help me."

Tom's face was beautiful. Really, the similarity he shared with Ned was striking. When Ned was angry, a muscle in his jaw twitched. When Ned was concerned, the small furrows in his brow grew more pronounced. When Ned smiled at something he thought was genuinely funny, his eyes lit up and his face transformed in impish, childish delight. When he smiled politely, he tended to bow his head a little in respect. Ned would never demean someone he cared about, would never make them uncomfortable unless he thought it was absolutely necessary. Ned would never, never beg unless it was his only option. Not unless every other alternative had been explored and discarded. Not unless it was his only hope. Tom looked so much like Ned.

I glanced at Ned, and met his eyes as he pulled them away from his older brother. Maybe it was the desperation in Tom's voice that convinced Ned, too, because he just looked at me, and his expression was a request.

It was ridiculous. It was impossible. I couldn't speak, couldn't act, and would never be believable as someone's love interest, especially not on a reality show called Party Castles that aired on the Wild! Channel on Wednesday nights. If anyone remembered me from this, I would be a laughingstock for the rest of my life. I would have to pretend to like Yates. I couldn't do it.

But Tom was begging me, and Ned was asking me, and I knew that if there were two people in this house for whom I would do anything, it was them. I opened my mouth to agree, started to nod, when the door to the living room blew open, and a loud, angry, and instantly recognizable voice boomed, "What the hell is going on here?"

Tom dropped my hand and turned. Everyone in the room sat frozen, watching with something akin to awe as Dr Bertram, pharmaceutical magnate and president of Mansfield University, stepped into the room, his shoes making an authoritative clicking on the floor. He clasped his wrists behind his back and glared us each down in turn, his eyes lingering with extra scorn on Guy Fearsome and the Party Castles crew. When he spoke again, his voice was vaguely polite and utterly full of contempt.

"Would someone care to explain what is going on in my house?"

* * *

><p>AN: Oh God you guys. Seriously. Grad school=hard. I'm so sorry I've put off updating (though for people who know of old, this gap isn't too bad). It's partly because I'm super busy, and partly because this is my least favorite part of Mansfield Park, and so I've put off doing it for as long as possible. I'm going to have some issues updating until the beginning of December, but I'll try to put something out before then, if it isn't absolute crap. Which it well might be.

Also, I promise things will start to look up soon. I know we've been in Sadville, Population: Fawn for awhile, but it gets better. Somewhat.

In other interesting news : I think that for the first time ever, someone may have appropriated my idea in a modern fic (Mansfield Ranch, I am side-eyeing you so hard right now...)

Let me know what you think of this chapter, and I hope to have something up sooner than December, but I'm not so sure. And Happy Halloween!


	16. Sweet Safety

My leg was shaking, and I couldn't stop it. We were gathered outside Dr Bertram's office, Ned and Mary and Mireille and Julia and me, listening to Tom and Dr Bertram yell at each other at top volume. As a guest, Mary didn't have to be there, but she'd stayed with Ned while Henry had disappeared into the night.

My chest felt like someone was squeezing it from the inside, and I had to remind myself to breathe. Little spots danced in front of my eyes whenever I forgot. I couldn't stop my knee bouncing, but I clamped my hands together between my knees to try to control my tremors.

Dr Bertram's hand landed on his desk again and again, bang bang bang, and even through the door it made my ears ring. If Tom was in this much trouble, how much trouble would I be in?

Mireille and Julia both looked worried. Julia, who had the more expressive face, was almost crying, while Mireille was a shade or two paler, a tone or two more reserved. Tom had been in trouble before, of course, we all knew that and we'd all seen that. This might be the first time that Mireille and Julia were in danger of being in real trouble themselves.

And then there was Ned. He leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, eyes down on the floor. Dr Bertram had said, when he'd left, that he counted on Ned. Would Ned be in trouble, too? Would Dr Bertram yell at him, too? Would he send him away?

My chest started to hurt, and I breathed in, shallowly. Would I be sent away, for joining in? Anyone could tell Dr Bertram that I'd been part of it. I was eighteen now. Would he send me away?

"Fawn?" I jolted in my seat as Ned crouched down beside me. I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I looked into his serious face, now just ever-so-slightly shadowed with scruff. "Are you okay?" His hands came up to rest on either side of my thighs, fingertips brushing the seat cushion.

"How much trouble are we in?" I barely moved my lips.

One side of his mouth twitched for a moment, then fell back. "I'm in a lot of trouble, I think. And Tom. I think I'll be the next one in that room." On the other side of the door, Dr Bertram hit the desk again, bang bang bang bang bang, and Ned dropped his head for a moment before looking back at me. "You, though, you're not in any trouble."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know, Fawn," he jiggled my knee with his hand to get my attention. "You weren't even a part of it, you never even agreed to do it. I'm in trouble. You are definitely not."

A lump in my throat appeared suddenly and without warning, threatening to choke me. "What if he kicks me out?" My voice was no more than a whisper.

His face changed from concern to sorrow to sympathy to something I couldn't place, and he tilted his head to catch my eye. "He would never kick you out. Never. He knows you have nowhere to go."

A tear slid down my nose and landed on my lips. Ned followed its path with his eyes. "But what if he does, though?" It took an effort, but I managed to close my lips before the sobs got out. I swallowed them whole.

Ned caught my hands in his, a powerful double grip. "Then you get to pick the place, and we'll go there together, okay? Just you and me." Another tear fell, and splattered on our hands, then another, then another. "But he'll never throw you out. He likes you too much." He leaned in, pressing his forehead against mine, then pulled back to look me in the eyes, smiling a little. "You don't have to wait outside here with the rest of us guilty ones, Fawn. Go on, grab some ice cream from the kitchen or something." I hesitated, and he hit my knee lightly. "I'll be here in one piece when you get back. I swear," he held out his pinky for me to shake. I shook it, feeling like an infant and a fool at the same time I felt a sweeping wave of gratitude and love.

Mary was watching us. I could feel her eyes on me, but I avoided looking at her as I stood up and walked down the hall as fast as I could without running.

The freezer was full of ice cream, and the cold air it wafted against my skin was as comforting as it was uncomfortable in the air-conditioned house. There, buried somewhere in the middle of the various pints was nearly-full container of peach. For a moment I fantasized running upstairs and kissing Ned for his thoughtfulness.

The thought made me feel even more nauseous than I had felt before. I closed the freezer with a resounding thud. The kitchen breathed around me.

I still felt jittery. I could go outside, maybe run around the house a couple times, just to calm myself down. Get the energy out. But I didn't want to leave the house, not after I'd been so worried that Dr Bertram would make me leave. I walked around the kitchen a few times as a compromise, unable to make up my mind.

On the third go-round, the door to the outside opened and Guy Fearsome breezed in, opening a cabinet and pulling out a glass, then another to take out a bottle of Dr Bertram's scotch. He poured half a glass-full, then leaned against the counter, taking me in.

My eyes flicked to the door. Hadn't he been thrown out?

He grinned a little. "Don't think he'll mind me taking it, do you? House like this? Probably has more in the basement. Or do you folks call it a cellar?"

It was the cellar. And there was more scotch down there.

"Oh, don't worry about me, sweetheart. I'm just here to finish up some legal things. Signed a contract, owner of the house, rights to release, you know. Don't know what we'll get out of it, since it's sure as hell not an episode of Party Castles! Not that you care. You were never too keen, were you, babe?" He moved so that his back was to the fridge. I could make a break for any of the doors, but he might beat me there first. I leaned back against my counter, attempting nonchalance as well. I wondered if I needed scotch to be nonchalant.

"Can I tell you something?" He took a swig of his drink, made a face like he was in pain, then gasped, "Jesus, that's good. Can I tell you something? You don't mind, do you?" He paused for a moment, and I didn't move. He laughed. "Of course you don't mind. Well, I just wanted to say that you, babe, you are a whole lot of interesting to me. The silent thing? I mean, where does that even come from? I mean, it's brilliant, it's totally cool. Totally cool in a secret, sexy kind of way. You don't mind if I tell you that." He saluted me with his glass. I tried not to look for the doors. "But it does make me wonder what's going on in that head of yours." He set his glass down on the counter between us, the scotch rising to kiss both sides, first halfway up, then lower and lower until it lay still. "Like, what are you thinking? And how do you even say things to people?" He leaned on his hands, putting his face as close to me as he could, on the other side of a counter, backed into a corner. It was close enough.

He watched my face for a moment. "Can I ask you something?" Again that chuckle, as if he'd said something amusing. "Why do I keep even asking your permission?" He shook his head, then leveled his gaze at me. "If you wanted to talk to me, could you?" He took a step to his right, edging his way around the counter toward me. "I mean, if you put your mind to it?" He took another little step.

My eyes flicked to the outside door. Would I be able to reach it before he did? My throat was tight, my breathing shallow. Little spots danced in front of my eyes.

What did he want from me?

"You look like you'd have a lot to say," he went on, cocking his head. "What would you say to me, if you could?"

My mind and my throat and my mouth were full of the things I would say, if I could. I knew I'd never get the chance, not now.

"Can we try something?" His hands came out, one propped on the island, the other on the counter attached to the wall, with which he was now level. He blocked my path to both house doorways. "How about if I take a stab at what you're thinking, and you tell me if I'm right?"  
>I started to edge away, trying to be subtle about it. He raised his eyebrows in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of Aunt Nola. "Oh, you don't have to be worried about me, baby. I'm not going to bite." He smiled then, a little. "Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are, sweetie?" He tilted his head toward me, clearly waiting for a reply.<p>

I stood perfectly still.

He chuckled, a deep, sandpaper sound, a Styrofoam on Styrofoam sound. "No? Well you are. Pretty, I mean. Crazy pretty. Those big eyes of yours, those cheekbones, those lips, I mean, you're a fucking goddess, did you know that? I could get you a modeling job, like that," he snapped his fingers, "if you want me to. If you ask me to." He took one more step toward me, close enough to smell the scotch on his breath. "If you ask me real nicely." And his hand reached up, gently, to stroke a lock of my hair out of the way. "So pretty," he crooned, rubbing a strand of my hair in between his fingers and thumb, "so very fucking gorgeous." He tucked my hair behind my ear.

His touch set off any alarm bells that hadn't already been ringing, and deep under the shock and panic that paralyzed me, I felt a bubbling surge of anger rise up. It wasn't strong, not really, since the fear of being hurt was stronger than anything else, but it was enough to make me move.

Billy had told me, once, when I was eight, right before we were split up, how to deal with people who hurt me or were mean to me. He'd scrunched up his sunkissed, freckled face to look at me where I had been sitting, a step or two above him on the front stairs. My knees had been bloodied from the kids who'd pushed me down at school, and my hands had borne the scratches and pockmarks of an acquaintance with asphalt. "Don't take it," Billy had advised, drawing in the dirt with a stick. Drawing a superhero with big boots. "Just stomp on 'em, Flan, 'kay? Just put on some big boots and when they try on stomp on you, you stomp on them back. Okay?"

Guy Fearsome took one more step closer, his body inching closer to mine. My gaze locked on the floor, I saw his foot come right into my line of vision.

I screwed up my courage, Billy's voice in my ears. I stomped. Guy Fearsome howled and grabbed at me. I stomped again, and again, then broke free of his hands and made my way for the door. At the last second I changed my mind, decided not to run outside, since there was nothing to stop him running after me. I switched tack, running for the door to the rest of the bottom floor, I'd be there in two seconds, I'd be there in one, I'd-

I ran right into a tall body standing in my way, and bounced off. I knew Guy Fearsome hadn't beaten me, since he was still behind me, cursing me at the top of his lungs. I raised my eyes, praying it wasn't one of the camera crew, praying I'd be able to escape. My vision connected with sandy blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and freckles before my mind settled on a name.

Henry Crawford. Henry Crawford, who looked from me to Guy Fearsome behind me, and swept me back without a second glance, so that he was standing between me and and the director. I tried to sneak out the door, but Henry had caught hold of my right wrist, and wouldn't let me go.

"You okay?" Henry asked Guy, though he sounded barely interested.

"Bitch broke my foot!" Guy leaned back into my spot old spot now, gasping for breath, favoring the foot I hadn't smashed.

"Really. I'm so sorry."

"I'll fucking sue you!" He pointed a shaking finger at me, "This is assault! I'll have your ass!"

I tensed, but Henry shrugged. "Cool. Go for it."

"I fucking will!"

"I'm saying you should, man. You want to sue the only niece of the maharaja of the world's second-largest pharmaceutical company? Good for you, buddy. Go for the gold," he leaned in conspiratorially. "Who knows? The judge and jury might all be predators, too, so..." He trailed off, straightening. "You knock yourself out with the lawsuit thing. Really." He paused for a split second. "Or you could get out now and not get sued for assault yourself."

There was more cursing, this time louder. Maybe he was hoping he'd bring the rest of the house in, but I could only guess they were all occupied with being yelled at by Dr Bertram upstairs. Something along the lines of Henry having no proof. Of Guy Fearsome being the injured party.

Henry shrugged again, so relaxed. So calm. "Yeah, maybe, but everyone in this house can testify that you were weirdly fixated on Fawn from day one. And this might not be a house full of people you want to go up against. Call me crazy."

Guy did. And a few other things at that. I shrank back at his voice, convinced he would bring the whole household running to see that the matter was. It was the first time I was glad that I lived in a mansion. Well-insulated eons between rooms.

When Guy Fearsome did leave, after several minutes, he hobbled out the side door with a difficulty that I was horrified to discover I took intense satisfaction from. The door slammed, and I made as if to leave. Henry turned toward me, but didn't let go of my hand.

"Hold on, wait," his eyes were on the ceiling; he was clearly listening. A few minutes later there was the crunch of tires on gravel, a car pulling away. Henry leveled his eyes to mine.

"You okay?"

I nodded.

"Did he hurt you?"

I shook my head.

"What did he say?"

I cocked my head. Henry had the grace to blush, which surprised me. "Well, I never know when you're going to talk to me, you know."

It's always when you make me angry, I thought. I wasn't angry. And even if I were, I wouldn't be angry at him.

"Are you okay?" He bent down a little, looking me straight in the eyes. He didn't seem particularly concerned, really. His voice hadn't changed since the last time he spoke to Guy Fearsome.

I nodded. Paused. Nodded again. Pulled on my wrist, raised my eyebrows.

He looked down at his hand as if he'd never seen it before, then released me. A hot pink ring ran around my wrist. "Don't know my own strength," he said, by way of apology. He watched my face again, expressionless.

My heart was still beating fast, and I could feel a bout of panic coming on. I needed to get out of the kitchen, but I needed to know something first. I looked up at him, with no hope whatsoever of him being able to understand what I wanted.

He looked down at me, frowning slightly. Blinked twice. His face smoothed out. "I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to."

Now I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. I nodded, and turned around to dash myself up to my room. The chair against the door wasn't enough. I sat with my back against, gasping for breath, feeling fingers in my hair, a hand against my cheek, hot scotch breath on my face.

I was spending too much time in my room. 

* * *

><p>What would I say, if I could? If I could choose only one thing to say to everyone, what would it be?<p>

I didn't want to replay Guy Fearsome's questions in my head, but as I stared at the carpet in Mrs Bertram's parlor, I couldn't stop myself. I dug my toe into the corner of a particularly vivid flower woven into the plush rug, not even trying to hear the conversation going on around me.  
>Tom was gone, again. We were all pretending that was fine. Again. No one mentioned him, or Yates, or the camera crew that had driven off mysteriously in the night. What would happen to all that footage? What would they do with it?<p>

No one asked those questions. Instead, it was polite, how-do-you-dos from Dr Bertram to the Crawfords, do-you-know-such-and-such, what part of Los Angeles are you from, which schools did you attend. Dr Bertram's trip had been fine, thank you for asking. So very much more productive than even he had been anticipating. They drank coffee from beautiful cups with quiet, sophisticated slurps.

I dug my toe in deeper. I could be a model like that. If I asked. If I asked nicely. The very thought of him standing so close to me gave me shivers. I wanted to tell Ned what had happened. I wanted to tell him desperately. But what if he blamed me? Or worse, what if he told his father, and his father told everyone in the house? It was better if nobody knew. It would have been better if no one had seen at all, but Henry Crawford knew now. He didn't look at me, not once, and after a few minutes I stopped watching him. Maybe he wouldn't tell anyone.

There was one part that gave me satisfaction, though, and that was how hard I had stomped on Guy. I probably had broken his foot, actually. He'd probably need to walk in a cast. Take that, I thought. I hadn't been frozen completely solid. Not quite.

It felt good. Better, maybe, than it should have, seeing as how I had just broken someone's foot with my heel.

What would you say to me, if you could? Why do I keep asking your permission?

"Fawn?" The room had gone silent. I looked up quickly, meeting Dr Bertram's eyes. He waited a moment, then repeated himself. "How are you?"

It was the first time in a year that he'd asked me a direct question about myself. I got over my initial shock and smiled, nodded. My lips felt tight. Ned, on the other side of the room, narrowed his eyes a bit, but Dr Bertram didn't seem to think anything was amiss.

"Didn't cause too much trouble while I was gone?" He was teasing me. Dr Bertram was teasing me. What was going on?

I smiled again, shook my head. Breathed in, breathed out. "No, sir. N-not too much t-trouble. "

He raised his eyebrows. "Ned, you weren't lying." Ned looked from me to his father and back, then crinkled his face in apology to me.

I was right not to tell him.

"Remind me when your birthday is, Fawn. It's coming up, right?" The fact that he even knew I had a birthday floored me. I shook my head, breathed in. Breathed out. "No, sir. Few weeks ago."

"My God," he set his coffee cup down authoritatively, as if forgetting my birthday were a travesty, not a near-yearly occurrence. "We should make it up to you, then. Beautiful girl like you with not birthday party. It's obscene."

I looked down at my knees. He was joking, I knew. He was teasing me again, maybe. So fucking gorgeous. I didn't want anyone telling me I was beautiful, not anyone. Not ever.

"Henry," Dr Bertram went on, "don't you think beautiful girls deserve better for their eighteenth birthdays?"

"I think someone as sweet and lovely as your niece deserves the best of everything," Henry answered with a casual cocked eyebrow. Dr Bertram chuckled.

"She's not actually our cousin," Julia whispered, leaning conspiratorially toward Henry. Henry nodded but didn't respond, didn't, in fact, seem interested.

I stared further into the carpet, mortified. What was this, now? I could feel Mireille's eyes digging into the back of my neck, sharp as claws. Henry should say those things to her, not me. Really, he shouldn't say them to anyone. Really, he should keep them to himself.

"Henry, please. You're embarrassing her," Mary put in from across the room. "Fawn doesn't like being noticed and complimented. She hates it as much as I hate being ignored. Leave her alone."

That was wrong. That was so wrong. She was terribly, terribly wrong. But Ned was nodding next to her, and Dr Bertram conceded. He turned back to me. "How would you like to have a birthday party? We could make it fancy for you, a real ball, if you want. My daughters both had princess balls at one time or another, do you remember? We could do the same for you, if you want."

I did remember those occasions. Aunt Nola had confined me to my room the whole evening, and I had watched the lights flickering out of my window. Mireille's party had happened when I was still in the first bedroom, and I had been on the wrong side of the house to see anything going on, but for Julia's I had been in the attic, with its almost panoramic view of the grounds, and I had been able to see people coming out onto the lawn, the front doors thrown open onto the spring nights. Even when I'd considered having a party to myself, I'd never imagined it would ever happen.

Mireille scoffed from behind me. Dr Bertram raised his eyebrows. "You don't have to come if you don't want to. But I figured Fawn would want to celebrate the occasion, what with her brother coming in a week."

I shot straight up in my seat, bolted to my feet. Belying the electric trembling running through my body, my voice was very quiet.

"Do you really mean that? He's coming here?"

Dr Bertram smiled again, a real smile that I would have to get used to. He'd never smiled at me indulgently before. "Yes, Fawn, really. I contacted him last week. He'll be here in a few days. Soldiers on leave should always have parties waiting for them, don't you think?"

I crossed the sitting room in three strides, not even sure myself what I was doing. Dr Bertram knew, though, and stood up, holding out his arms to embrace me. I wrapped my arms around his waist and, daring for just a moment, buried my head in the dark cotton of his suit jacket. I had never hugged this man before, had never hugged anyone in waking memory except for Ned and Tom and Billy, and it should have terrified me, but he smelled like clean laundry and sweat and his shaving soap, and it felt safe to hug him and have him hug me back.

Dr Bertram was home, now, I told myself. I would never feel unsafe again.

* * *

><p>AN: So I don't like doing so many authors' notes, but I wanted to apologize for being an entire month later than I promised. I thought I'd be done with my papers, but this is the semester that just won't die, and I'm still working on one as I type. Thank you for being so patient- I'm just sorry that I haven't rewarded your patience with anything resembling punctuality.

Thank you as well for all the people who private messaged me with ideas and feedback. You're amazing, and your ideas are amazing, and thank you for sticking with me. I'll be back soonish, since I should be done with this paper soonish (cross your fingers), but I'll keep my author page updated so you know where I am with chapters.

Thanks again, and Happy New Year!

Dinah


	17. Downpour

It was the rain that woke me up, I think. I lay in bed, listening to it pour down onto the roof and drip off the gutter, blessing it silently. Maybe the humidity would finally ease off now.

I closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to take me, but it my stomach rumbled and my mind raced and after an hour or so of lying on my stomach I realized that I had my teeth tightly clenched. I loosened my jaw, trying to get comfortable on my bed. The rain beat down on my head, roaring off the slanted roof, pounding into the gravel below.

Rain in summer was a good thing. Why was I so awake?

* * *

><p>The rain continued on and off for the rest of the next day. After I'd roused myself, late, and wandered around the house for a couple hours, I found myself staring out the window, following the line of the driveway as it disappeared down the road, and, peeking around me to make sure no one would notice and call me back in, I slipped out the door and into the rain, making a beeline for the gate.<p>

I trudged for a long time, head down, staring at my soaked sneakers, until the tight, fluttery feeling that had been sitting in my stomach all day began to subside. Water poured down my forehead and into my eyes and I shook it out, and shook it out, and shook it out. It ran down my shoulders and my chest and in rivers down my legs, splashing back up onto my shins and my calves with every step I took, and eventually, slowly, I began to get tired of my headlong dash. When I slowed, and slow I did, panting, I looked up to find that I was in the middle of nowhere.

It was a part of the road to town that I'd never really paid attention to before. The bank of the forest ran up steeply to my right, and the road took a little dip around the hill before it flattened out and headed right into town. I had no thoughts about my own safety, really, not even on a road in the middle of a rainstorm, water lashing my eyes. Very few cars ever came this way, since it fed almost directly into Mansfield proper.

I looked up the bank of trees to my right, peering past the first layers of pines, trying to see-what? A person? An animal? An escape? I didn't know. A sudden, ravenous urge sprang up in me to rush up that hill, pulling myself hand over hand past the treeline, and further until I hit something new. Another rash impulse pulled me back along the road, back to Mansfield, where I would throw my arms around Ned's neck and kiss him on the lips the way Henry had kissed Mireille in the show. The mere thought of that sent my thoughts skiddering in another direction, down the road in the opposite direction that I'd come, turning right out of the Mansfield gate rather than left, down past the few houses I knew about, into whatever lay on the other side of the woods. What was it? Was it the university? Another town? I realized, suddenly, that I didn't know much beyond the two square feet I had managed to explore. Not for the first time, my ignorance bothered me.

I glanced back up the hill, up through the trees, waiting for something to appear. When it didn't, and didn't, and didn't, I took the first few, tentative steps up the hill face, stepping on the brush and moss, pulling myself up on the tree trunks. I took step after step, tree after tree, until I was fifteen feet or so past the treeline. The rain was pooling around my sneakers, and as I took my last step up the hill my toe slipped, sending me sliding down on my knees, coating my jeans with mud along the shins.

I pushed myself back to a standing position, dividing my weight between two saplings. Up the hills was nothing but more trees, more rocks, more moss. What was I trying to get to? What was I even doing?

I glanced down at my sodden feet. I must be crazy. I must be out of my mind. What if someone came along and found me here, clinging to underbrush, soaked to the skin? What would they tell Dr Bertram? What would I tell Ned?

* * *

><p>I hurried up the driveway, hoping that I would be able to sneak in the side door and up into my room without anyone seeing me or knowing that I had been gone in the first place. I felt like a fool, and I felt that foolishness creep up the back of my neck. What was wrong with me? A day ago I had been happy to be here, happy that Dr Bertram was home. Now I was making half-baked escape attempts in the middle of rainstorms and dreaming stupid things. I was glad no one had seen me.<p>

As I passed the Grants' house, though, a voice called out my name. I jumped, startled, then looked up to see Mary standing at an upstairs window, waving at me.

"Fawn! Come on up!"

I hesitated. I was soaking wet, cold, and uncomfortable. All I wanted was to take a hot shower and put on my pajamas and pretend I didn't exist.

Mary had other ideas. "Don't go anywhere! I'm coming down!" Her smiling face disappeared from view. I waited, stupidly, as rain poured over the bridge of my nose and into my eyes and mouth and ears. An impossibly short time later, Mary flung the door wide open and beckoned me inside.

The moment the door closed behind me, the reality of my wetness sunk in. A puddle formed on the doormat at my feet, and the air-conditioning made shivers run up and down my spine. Goosebumps formed along my arms and chest.

"Look at you!" Mary said, touching my elbow affectionately, rubbing her hand briskly along my upper arm. "What were you doing out in this? It's like a typhoon outside!"  
>My teeth were chattering so hard I couldn't have answered if I'd been able to speak. Mary looked at me with concern, her eyebrows raised ever so slightly. "Well, never mind. Let's get you some dry clothes, okay? Come on up with me." She turned to go back up the stairs.<p>

But I had lived in this house with Aunt Nola for ten years, and I wasn't ready to traipse mud through its halls just because it belonged to someone else now. I stood planted on the doormat, determined to confine my mess to as little space as possible.

Mary made it to the eighth step before she realized I wasn't behind her. She turned back around, seeing me standing resolutely by the door, then came back down again.

"What's the matter? Come up with me! You can't stay in those clothes all day." I shifted my weight, my left sneaker squelching noisily. Her eyebrows shot up again, this time as she tried to conceal a smile.

"Don't worry about the floors. We'll grab them when we come back down. You're more important than the hardwood, anyway." She held out her hand for me to take. Hiding my surprise at this estimation of my value, I put my hand in hers and let her draw me up the stairs and into the best guest bedroom, which was obviously hers now.

Mary was six inches taller than me, a discrepancy that became more and more apparent the more pairs of pants I tried on. We finally settled on yoga pants, folding down the waistband and rolling up the cuffs. I dried my hair with a towel as she rummaged through her shirts.

"Sorry I don't have a bra your size," she said for the third time. "You'll just have to go commando until yours dries." She held up an oversized sweatshirt, the kind I'd seen in the movies from the 80s that I'd watched with Ned, only prettier. She glanced down at me, then back to the shirt. "You're so damn skinny, I don't want to put you in something that'll drown you. Do they feed you over there?" She meant it as a joke, I think, but I looked down at my feet anyway, determined not to give anything away.

If she noticed my discomfort, she didn't say anything. Eventually she found a shirt for me, a long-sleeved t-shirt with STANFORD emblazoned across the front. The sleeves were too long for my arms, but I pushed them up to my elbows, rolling the cuffs again when they slid down. I looked up to find Mary appraising me.

"Well, it's not bad considering the limited resources. At least you're dry." She flopped down on her bed and sat, cross-legged, looking up at me expectantly. I glanced around her room, taking in the beautiful photographs on the walls, the plush armchair in the corner, the well-organized closet, the bookshelves. Compared to this room, my room was bare.

I looked back at Mary, embarrassed to be staring at her possessions. She was watching me with that look again, that slightly-bemused look of someone not quite sure if they're hearing a joke. Seeing my face, she smiled. "You can look around if you like. Feel free. Make yourself at home."

I had never been in another girl's room before. Though I supposed Mary was a woman, not a girl like me. But then I'd never been in another woman's room before, either. What I remembered from my parents house was old off-white wall-to-wall carpeting and a closet door with mirrors on one side and a bed that had taken up the majority of the room. Julia had never invited me into her room, and I'd been too afraid of Mireille to even consider the possibility. What I knew of bedrooms, I knew from the rooms that had been set up for me, and from Ned's room with its tall windows and comfortable, shabby old couch.

None of Mary's furniture was old. The carpet was plush, and big enough to furnish the room without completely hiding the beautiful wood floors beneath. She had a bed frame with a fabric headboard, and clean, surprisingly wrinkle-free blankets. A bank of pillows were arranged at the head, so many that I thought it would be impossible to lie down flat on her bed. How did she sleep at night with so many pillows? Did she need them to feel comfortable?

The artwork on her walls was the most interesting to me, though. It was all photographs, something I'd never really seen before. I'd only ever painted, and even then I'd used supplies that Mireille and Julia didn't want anymore, so my color choices had been limited. The idea of my asking for a camera was laughable. But these photos were beautiful. Some black and white, some color, mostly of things in cities. Or maybe one city I didn't recognize.

I must have stared at the photos more intently than I'd intended, because Mary said, "You like those? Henry actually took them."

That surprised me. I turned to look at her, and she laughed. "I know. He doesn't seem like the artistic type. Not when he's spending all his time flirting and generally being useless," she said this with real affection, as if being useless was endearing. "But I guess being an artist and being a player aren't mutually exclusive, right? I mean, Manet died of syphilis so he must have gotten some action."

I had no idea who Manet was. I turned to look back at the photos. Mary continued, "Those are of Los Angeles. We grew up there, Henry and me." There was something wistful about her tone. I glanced at her again, and she smiled. "It probably doesn't make any sense to you, living in this beautiful house and having all this space and these trees and things, but I really miss the city. There's so much more to do there, and see there, people to meet, places to go, you know."

_Would she go back there if she could?_ I wondered. She looked up at me and grinned. "You know, sometimes the things you think are so clear, it's like you don't even have to speak, did you know that? Maybe you're just telepathic or something. But to answer your question, yeah, I'd like to go back. Eventually. I'd love to be back on the West Coast. Different place, different culture." She gestured out the window, where the rain was slanting down nearly horizontally. "It doesn't do this all the time, for instance. This is a little new for me." She glanced back up at me and smiled again, as if expecting a response, but I turned away. I didn't like the thought of people being able to read my face.

It was strange, since I'd spoken to Henry before, and Dr Bertram, without being prompted. In my distress after Party Castles! had gone south, I had even spoken to Ned in Mary and Mireille's presence. But this was different. I couldn't speak here, and I knew it.

After a pause, Mary filled the silence again. "He's actually a really good guy, my brother. A little flaky, maybe. A little bit of a playboy. But he means well. And he's talented. I just think maybe he needs to find the right person to settle him down. Make him want to come home to the same person. He's only twenty-one, you know. He just needs to apply himself, but I think he needs inspiration to help him do that. A muse, if you will. It can't come from inside himself, because then he'll just ignore it."

Why were we talking about this? Was I supposed to agree? Should I seem interested? I didn't know, but I nodded anyway, as if what she was saying made perfect sense to me.

She clicked her tongue, and shook her head, but it was clear that she wasn't reprimanding me. "I'm sorry, that's all really personal stuff. You don't need that. I'm just unloading, I guess. Ned doesn't really like to talk about Henry that much. Don't understand why."

I did. And I thought that Mary did, too.

"Anyway, it's just nice to have someone else to talk to about it. And it's good to talk to you, since I haven't really had you to myself in a long time. Come here, sit down." She patted the bed next to her. Not knowing a way around it, I sat down next to her.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" Unlike Guy Fearsome, she waited for my nod to give her permission, then said, "Does Ned really want to be a minister?"

I nodded, my heart dropping. I didn't want to start talking about Ned.

"Do you know why, though? I mean, he's smart, and he's serious, and he's charming and respectful and he argues well. He could be a lawyer or a business man. He could take over BerTech, or start his own company no problem. Don't you think it's a waste?"

I shook my head.

"No? Well, maybe you know better than I do." She leaned back on her hands, watching me for a moment, then leaned forward again and said, "I know I shouldn't be asking you this, I know that it's super unfair. But could you help me out? There's no one else I can talk to about this." Her eyes were soft with concern. I waited, not knowing what exactly she was asking of me. She leaned a little closer. "If I give you a piece of paper and a pencil, do you think you could...? Please? I'll never ask it of you again, but you know Ned better than anyone, and I need your help."

It took me a moment to realize what she meant, and once I did I had no idea how to respond. It seemed reasonable of her to want me to be able to answer with more than a yes and a no, but I wasn't sure how I felt about it. And my spelling was probably atrocious, and I wasn't sure about my handwriting or how long it would take for me to answer.

This time, though, Mary didn't wait for my permission. She picked up a notebook from her nightstand, tore out a piece of paper, and gave me a larger book to rest it on while I wrote. Then she handed me an enameled turquoise pen, the kind of pen you make sure you never lose, and settled back, a light awakened in her eyes.

"Are you ready?"

* * *

><p>"So you don't think it's a waste for Ned to be a minister?"<p>

_No._

"Why not?"

_Because it's what he wants to do._

"But he's smarter than that, don't you think? He's smart enough not to believe in useless superstition."

_Super stition?_

"And I mean, we can both see that Tom isn't going to be taking up the family business on his own. The two of them could run it together. Though they probably have people to run it for them anyway."

_Ned's never wanted to work at BerTech. He's only ever wanted to be a minister._

"Well, that's disappointing."

_?_

"Maybe we can get him to change his mind, huh? Hey, do you want to hear a song?" She turned around and grabbed a guitar case from behind her bed, taking out a beautiful instrument, adjusting the keys at the top of the neck.

I stood up. I was ready to go home.

"Oh, no, please stay, Fawn. I want you to hear this. And this is Ned's favorite song. Please stay. Please listen."

If I left, I would be mean. If I stayed, I would probably regret it. I sat down. She smiled and started to play a song I had never heard before. This was Ned's favorite song? I realized I didn't even know what kind of music he liked. She played beautifully. I felt, not for the first time that day, the desire to go as far and as fast from there as possible, to forget I had ever heard her play the guitar, forget I had ever said anything about Ned. Forget how inadequate I felt here, in her room, in her clothes, her walls decorated with gifts from her family, playing a song I had never known was my best friend's favorite.

The final chords of her song died off slowly, and she smiled at me, gauging enough positive reaction from my face to make her happy. She turned and put the guitar back in its case, and turned to me again.

"Do you have a dress?"

Figuring she meant a dress other than the old black one I'd worn to Norris's funeral, I shook my head.

"Ah, I thought not. I was going to give you one of mine, since I have way too many, but I think our dress up session shows us that you shouldn't take anything of mine unless you want to drown in it. And besides, I think you should have something that's yours, don't you?"

She held out her hands to me, wrists on her knees. I hesitated, then put mine on top of hers, palm to palm.

"How about you and I go to the mall tomorrow and find you a dress for your party? Something special in your size that you love? Not a hand-me-down from some trend-conscious cousins?"

The proposition brought me up short, and I blinked at the sudden prickling in my eyes.

"Would you like that, Fawn?"

Breathing deeply, around the tightness in my chest, I nodded. Why did she do this? Why did she make me feel uncomfortable and then turn around and do the one thing I hadn't realized I needed someone to do? I wished she would go away. I wished she would never leave.

She smiled fondly, bouncing our hands together, up and down. "You and me, then. And Ned, if he wants to come. It'll be a day about you, okay? Just the three of us, together. Celebrating you."

She reached up and played with a strand of my hair, tucking it back behind my ear.

"I've always wanted a little sister."


	18. Freckles

The driveway stones had baked all day in the sun, and were now burning small circles into the soles of my sneakers. August sun, so hot and close it left me gasping, beat down on our heads. Next to me, Ned switched his weight from one foot to another. He was impatient in spite of himself.

I stood stock still, waiting. Dr Bertram had told us to wait inside where it was cool. He was there now, reading the newspaper in the parlor while Mrs Bertram dozed on the couch. It was too hot, he'd said. There was no telling what time the taxi would arrive, what with the traffic on the highway. I had tried to listen, choosing first to sit by the window, pulling back the curtain every minute or so. I had tried to sit still when Mary had admonished me, but my legs kept shooting me upright to pace back and forth, checking the window again and again for the sign of my brother coming to see me at last.

Finally, Mary had suggested we head outside, a suggestion that Ned had taken up immediately, if only to give me something to do besides pace. After fifteen minutes of sweltering, Mary had headed back inside, leaving Ned and me out on the burning gravel. I could feel Ned starting to consider doing the same, and on a normal day I wouldn't have blamed him. Would have, in fact, felt guilty for keeping him out in the sun for so long. Today, though, I barely spared him a second thought. Billy was coming. Billy was coming.

I should have worn sunscreen, though. Mary had taken great care to explain the horrors of visible tan lines in situations requiring formal wear. If anything were to send me inside at this moment, it would be the promise of looking like a presentable human being at my party. The party my brother was coming to. But what if I went inside and missed Billy coming? What if I wasn't here to see him get out of the taxi? What would he think, if I weren't there waiting for him? My feet were rooted to the spot, anyway. There was no question of me going anywhere.

The preparations for the party were taking place around us. Besides buying a dress and shoes- at Dr Bertram's expense, to my humiliation- I had had very little involvement with any part in the planning. I wondered if that was normal, if Mireille and Julia's birthdays had been taken care of like that, or if it had more to do with a greater estimation of my abilities and the quality of my input. Certainly I didn't think that Mireille would have sat back while other people planned her party. Whatever the reason, though, I was grateful to not have to think about decorative details and the number of members of the live string orchestra. Billy was coming.

What would he think of me, though? I had spent every day since he'd told me his travel plans wondering, and as his arrival got closer and closer, I found that the answer worried me more and more. The times we'd spoken on Ned's laptop notwithstanding, we hadn't been in each others' company since Edwina had taken me to Connecticut. Would he like me? Would he forgive me for still not being able to speak? Would I disappoint him? My hands were shaking-I clasped them, running thumbs into opposite palms as if I were trying to dig a hole.

Ned cleared his throat, "What's his middle name?"

"What?" I didn't take my eyes off the gate, but the question had caught me off guard.

"Billy's middle name? What is it? William what Price?"

"We both have the same middle name," I said absently. "Susie, too." I thought of Susie's picture, taped to my mirror. That picture was two years old now-Susie had been just celebrated her seventh birthday. The familiar old twist of guilt hit my stomach. I wondered how tall she was-I had never seen her outside of pictures. Our uncle didn't have a laptop, and I couldn't speak on the phone.

There was a moment's silence. Then, "And what's your middle name?" That surprised me, and I turned to face Ned, who was considering me in his solemn way. The crinkle was back in his forehead. I saw, for the first time, the sun-splash of new freckles across his nose. We freckled so easily, Ned and Billy and I.

"Calhoun," I said. "My mother's maiden name." I mentally ran through the list of Bertrams: Thomas Samuel. Julia Evelyn. Mireille Cora. Edmund Nicholas.

"William Calhoun Price. Susan Calhoun Price." Ned grinned, and poked my upper arm with his finger. "Fawn Calhoun Price."

I considered him a moment, waiting for him to realize what he'd said to me. His grin fell as he caught my expression, whatever it was.

"What?"

"Flannery. My name's Flannery." A breeze whipped up for a second, stroking the sweaty nape of my neck with cool, humid fingers before retreating the way it had come. In the second before I turned back to the driveway, I saw Ned's face pale beneath his new freckles.

"Of course. Fawn, I'm sorry, I just-" I gasped then, cutting him off. A yellow taxi was trundling over the bump at the end of the driveway, making its way toward us in the heavy air. Even from so far away I could see the waves of heat blasting in waves from the car's exoskeleton. I took three unconscious steps forward, and then the car had stopped, and the door was opening, and my heart leapt up to choke me as there he was. Simple as that. His face, sunburned and wind-roughened, was split in a smile from ear to ear. He held his arms open to me, and I launched myself into them, knocking us both back against the car frame.

I buried my face in his neck. He smelled of sweat and laundry detergent and soap and shaving cream. With a growl, he lifted me off my feet, swishing me from side to side. I clung to him, feeling oddly breathless, until I realized I was saying his name over and over and over. I hiccuped to a stop. He set me back down on my feet but seemed unwilling to let me go. We stood still, arms wrapped around each other, until he let out a short breath.

"Hi."

I pulled back, looking up at him through the tears that had sprung, unbidden, to my eyes. "Hi," I managed, before they spilled down my cheeks. He pulled me back to him, and we stood like that, as my body was wracked with sobs that started out small but grew larger and larger the longer my brother was still there, still holding me, still real. I hadn't realized before how much I'd missed him. Hadn't realized how much I had needed him. A wave of loneliness rose up in me, bursting from my stomach and out my throat and from my eyes, and I have to admit I wailed like a child, as hard as I tried to stop it.

He held me, and rocked me, and made small shushing sounds until I quieted down. When I was finally able to let him go, his eyes were wet. He was grinning, though.

"Did you miss me?"

"Oh, shut up," I said, rubbing my hands under my eyes. He laughed in triumph, turning around to grab his bag from the taxi, who then pulled away. I held onto his left arm with both hands, unwilling to let go, certain that he would leave if I did, even though I knew it wasn't true. My heart was hammering in my chest, but after my outburst of emotion, all I wanted to do was close my eyes and melt into a puddle, or fall asleep for a thousand years.

I turned, remembering Ned for the first time, to find him standing a little way off, his body turned away from us as if to give us privacy. I felt another wave rise up in me, and I wiped away more tears before they fell, blinking them away as fast as I could. As Ned and Billy introduced themselves and shook hands, I fought to get myself under control.

Control was tenuous.

Ned followed us up to the third floor, showing Billy the guest room that was closest to mine. Someone had aired out the room and changed the sheets. The shades were thrown up to the ceiling, letting the brilliant light in to cheer the room. Billy flung his bag down unceremoniously on the bed, then turned to me.

"Alright, now let's see your room," he pushed me out of his room, not giving it a second glance, then followed me, hands on my shoulders, down to my door. He talked the entire way there, something about wanting to see my palace, so I threw open the door with exaggerated vigor to make him smile, and when he threw his head back and barked with laughter, happiness burst out of me in small hiccups.

By the time we remembered Ned, Billy had picked me up over his shoulder and was marching around the room, me laughing hysterically. Billy stopped as he caught Ned's reflection in my mirror, then turned sideways so that we could both see Ned, standing in the doorway, watching us with a small smile.

"Hey, listen," Billy said, sticking out his hand. Ned came to shake it again warmly. Billy put me down. "Listen, thanks for everything. And for looking out for this kid here," he ruffled my hair messily, to which I scowled. "But it's been a long time since we've seen each other, so..." he trailed off, a little expectantly.

Ned blinked, then shook his head and grinned. "No problem. We'll talk when you've settled in. Faw-" he paused, "Fla-um, I'll see you later," he finished, covering up his fumbling with a wink. We watched him back of the room, closing the door behind him.

I turned to Billy, and he grinned at me, still there. I opened my arms wide, and he grabbed me up to spin me around again, and even though we were in my cold room in Mansfield, we could have been on our street in Chelsea, we could have been in a field or a foreign town, we could have been under the sea. It was just us, Billy and me.

Just like it was always supposed to be.

* * *

><p>AN: I know, I know, it's super short, and I'm so sorry. Sorry for a lot, especially the delay. My computer suffered a terrible demise, and I lost the next two chapters of the story, so I'm re-piecing them from memory (note: not fun). This chapter used to be longer, but I didn't want you to have to wait for me to be done with it all right now. Hopefully this will be a little band-aid for you until the next bit is done.

My birthday is this Saturday; I'll try to have something up by then!


	19. Clasps

"So what's it like?" I looked up from the frayed arm of my chair, my thoughts settling back on Dr Grant.

"What's what like?"

"Having Billy here," he smiled, settling back against his desk, his chair leaning drunkenly on its spindly legs. "How does that make you feel?"

I blinked at him once, twice. Smirked.

"Stupid question?" He was watching my face in something akin to amusement.

"Kind of. He's my best friend." I fiddled with my new necklace, trying to imagine how I would even start to describe what Billy being here was like for me.

"I thought Ned was your best friend." He was watching me differently now.

The question brought me up short, and I groped for words for a moment. Just as Dr Grant turned to grab the notebook I had left, forgotten, on his desk, I got my mouth around the words. "He is. But Billy's different. He's family. He's known me forever. He knows things about me that Ned doesn't. He doesn't even have to ask."

"What kinds of things?"

A silent chasm opened up between us for a moment. I trusted this man. Truly, I did. I trusted, too, that he was solidly in my corner, and that any information I gave him would stay in this room. Stay between us. But talking about my family with him felt too personal. It felt like a betrayal.

I shook my head.

He grinned ruefully, looking down at the notebook on his own lap, spread open, the pages empty. He never wrote during our sessions. "Not so much, huh?"

"Not so much. Not yet."

He let the silence sit for a second. It was only when my fingers started fiddling through the strings of the old upholstery that he nodded at my neck. "Birthday present?"

* * *

><p>We were on the grass, Billy and I. Him on his back, me on my stomach. He had one hand on his stomach, rising and falling with his breath. His other arm was thrown across his eyes, blocking the sun from his face.<p>

I had my chin on my hands, flat against the ground. I watched industrious ants trail past, marveling at their industry even in this heat.

"Is this what it's like all the time? Just hanging out here? Chillin' out max and relaxin' all cool?"

I debated telling him that I hadn't really had anything to do since Nola stopped my lessons four years ago. I decided against it. I didn't want to tell him how things had been for me, not yet. I wanted him to be happy to be there, at least until my party.

"Getting bored?" I let my voice drip with sarcasm; I knew he'd appreciate it. "Want to go shoot a couple things to while away the hours?"

"You think you're funny. You're not funny." Unseeing, he sent out his leg to nudge me. It took him a couple of tries before I tapped him on the leg to guide him. His grin poked out from around his arm.

"So. Flan. Ned. Tell me about him." The question was so abrupt, I watched what I could see of his face to determine if he was joking. It was only when he took his arm off his eyes that I saw he was serious.

"Oh. Well. He's-I don't know, Billy, he's Ned." I tried to make it sound like that didn't mean much. "He's my friend."

"He definitely cares about you. You two pretty close?" He tried to make it sound like he wasn't curious.

"Pretty. Why?"

"Huh. And he got you a birthday present? For your actual birthday, not whatever this is," he waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the house.

"Well, yeah, but that's not news. You knew that."

He pursed his lips, then lay back down. "I did know that."

"Billy?" I asked, after a moment. "Why does this matter?"

I watched the hand on his stomach rise and fall three times before he answered. "That Nola is a piece of work. You never told me she was like that." With his face hidden from me, I couldn't resort to my normal shrug. I stayed silent, watching him. "And Dr Bertram's never here. And his wife...well, I guess she's nice."

He took his arm off his eyes, and sat up again, his eyes grave on my face. "Julia is self-absorbed, and Mireille hates both of us." I winced, thinking about the look on Mireille's face when etiquette forced her to shake hands with Billy. "So that leaves the boys. What's the older guy's name? Tom? Nobody talked about him. And then there's Ned." He pointed a finger at the house that was either accusatory or for emphasis.

"Right."

"Right," he echoed, leaning back on his hands.

"So?" I tried to sound defiant. I ended up sounding defensive.

"So, in this whole round of characters, I'm trying to figure out who's been looking out for you this whole time. 'Cause it sure as hell wasn't any of the adults in there, and a couple of the younger ones looked ready to murder you, you so much as look at 'em. So if Ned is the only person you can count on in this place, then at least you have something. As long as it's the right kind of something." I looked up into Billy's soldier eyes, suddenly harsh and no-nonsense, at first not certain what he meant. When I did realize it, I thanked every ancestor I could remember that I couldn't blush. That didn't stop me from hanging my head in embarrassment.

"It is. It is the right kind. He-I'm like a sister to him, Billy."

"Yeah?" He sounded unconvinced, even mocking. "I ever look at my sister like that, may God strike me down."

"Stop. No he does not." Something in my voice, or in the way I looked resolutely away from him, down at the industrious ants, softened Billy's bluster. I felt, rather than saw, Billy pull himself closer to me, so that he sat on a level with my shoulders, looking down at me.

"Flan. I'm sorry. I don't want to come in here and thrown my weight around, but you gotta understand. You told me they took care of you. You told me they were good to you. Come to find out they apparently only just realized they missed your birthday, and only a couple people are sad about it...You told me you were happy."

"I am happy." My voice trembled so much I bit down on the last word before it was finished.

"No, you're not. We know you're not." When I didn't answer, he held out his hand for mine. I turned over so I could give it to him. "Come back to Boston with me. I'll be home for another couple weeks. I can help you and Uncle Liam get used to each other. I can help Susie get to know you. You don't have to be here anymore. You can come back to your family." His voice dipped in volume. It mattered to him.

I wanted, for a moment, to say yes. I wanted to say yes so badly the breath threatened to rip apart my chest on its way out of my mouth. To be home, with my family. To meet Susie. To be in a place where I belonged. To never have to see Nola or Mireille again. To put Mansfield behind me.

But if I did leave, I would leave without really learning how to speak to strangers. I would leave without seeing Tom again. I would leave Ned alone.

I was quiet for a long time. Billy stroked the back of my hand to comfort me. Finally, I shook my head, not in refusal, but because I couldn't answer.

"Think about it," Billy said. "Just think about it. Uncle Liam wanted you to begin with. The state just had other opinions." I nodded, blinking hard against the tears that had come welling up in my eyes.

"But," he continued, in a brighter voice, "on the subject of birthdays, I have something for you." He reached around to his back pocket, from which he drew a little cloth pouch. "It doesn't have a chain," he told me sheepishly, holding the pouch out to me. "My buddy Trigger broke it on the way back here."

I pulled the strings open, and a small silver oval fell out onto my palm. It glinted in the sun, but right away I could see it was old, with some dark discoloration along the ornately etched surface. A pattern of-what? leaves? flowers?-surrounded a small, rose-colored stone on a flat oval roughly the size of the pad of my thumb. I smiled as I turned it this way and that, following the etchings as they ran around the pendant.

"I picked it up in a covered market in Baghdad. Some of the others were all over the stall all the time, looking for things to send back home. This woman, she and her son were selling old jewelry and silver and stuff. I thought of you when I saw this."

"It's beautiful," I said, still staring at the present in my hands.

"Yeah? You like it?" Now he sounded like a puppy getting ready to frisk. I smiled up at him, and his eyes softened. He smoothed down my hair. "Good. I want you to be happy."

I held out my hand for his, and we sat there, hands clasped, until the sun started to sink in the sky.

* * *

><p>"It's pretty," Dr Grant said, smiling. I smiled back.<p>

"Yeah. It was a birthday present."

"Does that make you happy? Getting presents?"

I shrugged. He raised his eyebrows; it was clear I was avoiding the question.

"I don't get them very often."

"You got that bracelet from Ned," he pointed out, nodding at my wrist, where Ned's birthday present dangled.

"I get presents from Ned," I amended.

"Just not often."

"Twice a year," I said, feeling a sudden urge to defend him. "That's normal for friends. And family." If he noticed my hesitation, Dr Grant didn't show it.

"But you don't get presents from the rest of the family?"

"Not normally," I shrugged again. Both Dr Grant and Billy paid a lot of attention to the rest of the family. They didn't realize how things worked here.

"How does that make you feel?"

"Do you think I should expect more from them?" My brow furrowed in confusion, my annoyance rising. He was gunning for something today.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's a little silly to expect them to give me more than what they've already given me. A little greedy, too."

"What have they given you?"

I opened my mouth in astonishment, then raised my arms, gesturing around us. "This. A place to live. Food to eat. They haven't kicked me out. They're giving me a place to live."

"That's not much."

"That's everything."

He sat back, watching me. I felt my skin crawl in discomfort. I hated being watched like that. Why was he attacking me like this, now that things were finally going better for me?

He waited until I spoke again. "It may not seem like much to you. To someone like you. But I was ten, and I didn't have a place to stay. They took me in."

"Nola took you in." He corrected, gently.

I huffed to a stop, not willing to say how I felt about Nola.

He waited. "I would feel wrong taking more things from them. I would feel greedy expecting more presents."

"What about the dance they threw for you? How did that make you feel?"

I looked back up into his eyes, which were watching my face with an almost obnoxious patience.

"Expensive."

* * *

><p>"How do you feel?" Mary called over her shoulder. I turned around to look at myself in the mirror, then shrugged. Clocking my silence, Mary turned around to take me in.<p>

"Perfect!" She breathed, stepping forward to put her hands on my shoulders, turning me full on to face my reflection. "You are so beautiful, Fawn. Look at yourself."

I did. The dress, a pale shade of pink, hugged my chest and waist before flaring out in an A-line. Several layers of fabric supported a skirt with a wandering embroidered pattern up the left side. Small, discrete crystals twinkled at us. It did look good, I supposed. But I felt more exposed than I had done when I'd tried it on in the dressing room.

"Their jaws are going to hit the floor," Mary said, tightening the little belt that cinched in my waist, then brushing some imaginary lint off my shoulder. "They're not going to know what hit 'em. Least of all that brother of mine." She rolled her eyes at me, as if we were sharing some kind of joke. I watched her work on making the dress lie perfectly, but she didn't catch my eye. Instead, she went on.

"You impressed him, you know, when you stood your ground against Guy Fearsome." I bit my lip and looked down. He'd told her about that night in the kitchen. "And everyone else," she went on. "It's not easy to stand up to that kind of peer pressure. And for what it's worth," she said, straightening up and catching my gaze in the mirror, "I'm sorry for my part in it. You were right to stand up for yourself. There," she said, sighing in satisfaction. "You're an angel. You're a goddess. Look at you. Like a princess in a fairytale."

I did look like a princess, I decided. At least, the bottom part of me fit the part. My face was still bewildered, my eyes still a little lost. So fucking beautiful. I didn't think I'd ever get his voice out of my head. But, pretty as the dress was, it still looked like a little girl in costume next to Mary, who wore her regal, body-hugging ballgown with such confidence. Would I ever be able to be like her?

"I forgot," she said, reaching behind her neck to unclasp the simple chain that hung there. "He sent this over for you." She spiraled the chain into the palm of my hand, where it lay coiled like a snake. I stared at her, and then at the chain, confused.

"What-?" She smiled brightly as I spoke the word, as if I had just cured cancer or saved the world.

"It's for the gift Billy gave you. He was talking to Henry, Ned, and me about it. About how you didn't have a way to wear it. Henry thought he'd lend a hand. That chain," she said, closing my hand around it, "has been in my family for generations, apparently. And God knows I don't want it. But I guess I shouldn't take the Big Man's name in vain, not where Ned might hear." She was turned around, so I couldn't see if she was joking or not. I didn't think she was joking.

Uncharitable.

"Now, why don't you throw on that old shirt," she said, gesturing to one of Tom's old button-down shirts she'd appropriated for the night, " and I'll take care of that hair and makeup?"

* * *

><p>Billy, dressed in his military formals, had led me into the party without a falter in his step. It was surprisingly easy, on his arm, to fake a sense of poise. Everything was so much easier with him here.<p>

As we walked into the room, fashionably late to my own party, the room turned to look at us. Out of the three hundred faces in the room, I knew only about fifteen. My eyes fixed first on Ned, who came up to hug me and shake Billy's hand.

"The woman of the hour! You look beautiful." He kissed me on my temple, and I was glad of Billy's arm stabilizing me. "Billy," he said, "glad you could be here." There was a note of caution in Ned's tone, and I shot Billy a warning look, one that was remarkably similar to the gaze Billy had fixed on Ned's face.

"Wouldn't miss it," said Billy, rolling his eyes at me in defeat. "It's not every day someone celebrates one of my baby sisters." He pinched my cheek hard enough to make me swat at him.

"Do you mind if I steal her for a dance?" Ned said, winking at me. "I promise I'll have her back to you in one piece soon."

As he led me to the dance floor, I leaned in to him, "Ned, I don't know how to dance." I flicked my eyes to all the people around the room, people who would be watching me all night.

"Neither do I, not in practice, anyway. In principle, I should, since I've had a few lessons. But knowing me, they probably all failed."

"I'm going to look stupid, Ned." I whispered as he turned me into his arms.

He smiled gently, giving my waist a small pat. "No you won't. I'm going to look stupid, and you have to follow my lead. No one will blame you. Also, we're going to be turning in the easiest of all of God's shapes-the circle." He turned me slowly on the spot. "No fancy stuff. No tricks. You got this."

I breathed. Then breathed again. "They won't laugh at me?" I hadn't told Billy this worry. Maybe I hadn't needed to, but I would never have offered it, either. He deserved a normal sister.

"If they do, I'll throw them out," said Ned, in a voice that could either be joking or serious. Standing this close to him, I couldn't see his face. He chuckled, making the hand that clasped his shoulder shake a little. "That would give them something to talk about. The pacifist throwing people out of an eighteen-year-old's birthday party."

The gap between our ages yawned open. Twenty-two was much older than me.

"Or they could do a series of challenges to prove their worth to stay," I offered. "We don't have to get physical with them."

"Nope. Laugh, and they're out. No mercy." He pulled back to smile at me, turning me on the spot. "Nervous?"

I laughed a little. "Always."

His face sobered, then pulled me back to him. "We got you."

I didn't know who "we" was. I didn't want to ask.

When the dance was done, I fully expected to return to Billy and never leave his side, but Henry caught us before New could deposit me with my brother. He sketched a little half bow and held out his hand to me.

"Might I have this dance, madam?"

I glanced a Ned, who still held my hand clasped in his, then at Billy, who was watching us with his eyebrows raised. Henry chuckled. "I don't bite, you know."

I didn't know, then, how to turn a man down without hurting his feelings. I didn't know that hurting his feelings wasn't a problem, in certain situations. I knew that if I hesitated longer, Billy would step in, or Ned would, and then everyone would be watching us.

I took his hand, and let go of Ned's, and we stepped back onto the dance floor.

This time it was different. Henry was a more practiced dancer than Ned, and he held me with more confidence, though I hadn't noticed that Ned was lacking in confidence before. Henry also held me tighter, when he wasn't spinning me.

"You've probably gotten this a lot tonight, but you look beautiful. Not that you're not normally beautiful," he said, with a boyish grin, "but tonight even the most self-absorbed person can see it. Look at Nola," he said, gesturing with his head every so slightly to my left. He spun me so I could see Nola watching us, her arms crossed, her lips pursed. She was beautifully turned out, as always, but the ice that came off her was imposing. Most people stood a few feet away.

I blinked, and looked away. She would probably know we'd been talking about her. She always knew.

"And our mutual friend," Henry chuckled, unaware of my fear. He spun us again, and this time I caught a glimpse of Mireille over his right shoulder. Unlike Nola, who had been cloaked in anger, Mireille looked naked for a moment. Henry dancing with me was doing something to her, something Henry may have known about. Maybe he was doing this deliberately.

Mireille caught my gaze, and her contempt was easy to read. She straightened up, tossing her head, and put her arm around Rush, who was standing next to her.

She hates me, I thought. I didn't think I'd realized that quite so vehemently before. She hates me and she'll never stop.

Henry was still smiling. I sent him a look that put a stop to that .

"What?"

"Do you like doing this? Do you like hurting her?"

His eyebrows ticked up. "You only talk to me when you're angry, you know that?"

I watched him, trying to match Billy's no-nonsense face.

"Listen, Fawn. No one but no one hurts Mireille. She's got skin a mile thick. She'll be fine. Besides," he said, pulling me a little closer, "we're just dancing. Maybe you shouldn't read too much into it."

I had never been that close to a man before. Not like this, with his hands on my waist and his breath in my ear and his smiling face so close. I had never had my arms around a man like this before, even if I couldn't help it. I hated that I enjoyed it a little bit.

How old was Henry, again? Was he too old to be holding an eighteen-year-old like this?

"Did Mary give you that chain?" His question came out of the blue, and I paused for a second to re-situate myself. "The one I gave her to give you?"

I nodded, using our closeness as an excuse not to look at him. I was tall enough to look over his shoulder without having to try. Not as tall as Mary, though, who could look Ned in the eye. He liked that. I knew he liked that.

"Good. Will-will you wear it? Will you use it?" The pause was so uncharacteristic that I looked at him, but he had his charming face on, and I couldn't read the reason for the hesitation.

I didn't know how to avoid the question while giving an answer. New territory for me. I had never been able to speak to someone whose questions I didn't want to answer. I settled on a shrug.

"I hope you will. It was a little old for Mary. She likes the shiny. The new things. That's how we're different, her and me. She's always after the new."

"What are you after?" I had wanted to know for a long time now.

He grinned again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm after the mysterious."

The song ended. I spent the rest of the night at Billy's side, flanked by Ned. The place on my waist where two men had touched me burned warm, my right hand tingled. People's eyes were on me through a champagne toast, the song, the speeches Dr Bertram and Ned made in my honor. I felt beautiful. I felt like I was on display. A necklace in a museum.

With a chain.

* * *

><p>"Mireille didn't look happy," Dr Grant noted. "But you were beautiful," he continued. I smiled at the sincerity of his compliment, even if the repetition of the same words were starting to grate on me.<p>

"Thank you."

He sat back again, surprise flicking across his face. "Well, that's interesting."

"What is?"

"You know, I've had a lot of patients in my time. Most of them have had trouble seeing themselves in the right light. Most people I've ever known, actually. Not just people who pay me to talk to them. And the majority of people I know, if you compliment their looks, will turn down that compliment out of hand. Not you, though."

"Is that wrong?" Was I abnormal? Was I so different from everyone else?

"No, no, that's not wrong. It's just that it wasn't what I was expecting, that's all. You said, 'thank you,' not, 'no, I'm not pretty,' and it was a nice surprise. It's a good thing, Fawn," he said, reading my fear on my face. "It's a really good thing."

"I've never really thought about how I looked. Not, like, physically. I know I'm not put together or well-dressed like Mireille. Her clothes are always so beautiful. I don't have anything like that."

"Do you watch much TV, Fawn?"

I laughed, surprised. "No. Why?"

"Watch a lot of movies?"

"Sometimes, with Ned. We mainly watch oldies. Singin' in the Rain. Things like that."

"Read magazines?"

"No. Why is this important?" I didn't like having my cultural ignorance thrown back in my face. I hadn't forgotten about Freud. Whoever he was.

"Its just-you see yourself in this light, as always compared to Mireille. Always lacking, always scruffy. Am I right?"

"Yeah." Did he think I was scruffy?

"It's interesting, because while you're looking at Mireille as this example of how you should dress, I think there are things about your life that Mireille would kill to have. That there are things she's been inundated with since she was younger that you've managed to avoid."

"I was homeschooled. I didn't have many friends."

"I know, and there are things about your life that weren't fair, weren't equal. There still are. But you seem to put an emphasis on how you look only in comparison to the other women you see around you. The rest of it seems to be about what you can do. I think Mireille, and, yes, Mary, have been trained to focus more on how they present themselves than on what they can do. I think there are things about you that the two of them would be jealous of. I know Mireille definitely is."

"Mireille's jealous of me. That's what you think?"

"Is it really so ridiculous to think that there are things you have that she wants?"

* * *

><p>Four in the morning, and the party-goers had been gone for three hours. When I had retreated to my room, exhausted, I had slipped off my heels for the utter bliss of wearing cushy slippers. My pajamas caressed me, forgave my bad posture, but I had to admit to myself that I had loved wearing the dress. Maybe I would wear it again, someday.<p>

I had thought, at first, that I would be able to fall asleep immediately. But Ned's hand still caressed my waist. I could smell his soap and his shaving cream. Then it was Henry's closeness, his smile. His cologne.

I felt electric-exhausted but charged. I didn't know what to do with myself. Lying down, and thinking these things felt off, felt too intimate. I got up, tried to sit by my window to calm my thoughts.

But my thoughts were too big to be contained in my room. Everyone was asleep. No one would catch me out there in the hallways.

My hair was still in the big bun Mary had created. Traces of mascara clung to my lashes. Even in my pajamas, I felt the echoes of my former glamor. It warmed me. It shamed me, but it warmed me, too.

I tiptoed out into the hallway, then down the stairs. I would try and read in the living room, or I'd sit outside and look at some stars. The dew would collect on the grass soon. Maybe I'd be there for that, too.

Nearing the library, I heard voices. At this hour they were lowered, but from the tone I knew they were shouting at each other. Feeling guilty, but desperately curious, I padded my way to the door.

"...expect me to believe that?" Mireille snapped.

"I don't care what you believe, honestly," Henry replied. I pulled my head back, ashamed. I didn't move away from the door, though.

"Her? Really? You realize what that makes you?"

"Someone who recognizes quality when he sees it?"

"It makes you a predator, is what it makes you."

"If that's how you see it."

"Damn right that's how I see it! And it's how my dad's going to see it, too, and when that happens, you'd damn well better hope that you have good head start. He loves that little retard."

"Shut the fuck up, Mireille," his voice was like a whip, quick and vicious.

"You're awfully galant."

"Call me a changed man." His toned had cooled considerably.

"What about us? What about what we talked about? What about Madrid?" I had never heard Mireille cry before. I sincerely hoped I never would again.

"Sorry if I made you think I meant something other than what I meant. Sorry if you misunderstood."

"It isn't fair," she ground out.

"Life's not fair," he returned, so coolly he could have talking about the weather.

I turned on my heel and ran away, praying my feet didn't make a sound on the floor, not caring if they did.

* * *

><p>The next morning, bleary-eyed, I came down to breakfast to find Ned and Billy, deep in conversation. As I approached, Ned straightened up and smiled. "Hey there, sleepy-head."<p>

Billy poured me a cup of orange juice. "Here you, go. Breathe some life into that face."

"Where's everyone else?" From the looks on their faces, they were not going to tell me what they'd been talking about.

"Fast asleep, Fawn. They don't have our internal clocks," Ned loaded my plate with waffles. "Syrup?"

I flicked my eyes between Ned and Billy and back again. They watched me with perfectly identical blank expressions. They were up to something. I accepted the syrup, picking up my knife and fork.

"What's with the nickname?" Billy asked, taking a sip of coffee.

Ned and I looked at each other. "Well, when she got here, she didn't speak at all, and she was really small, and had those big eyes of hers. The name stuck. I don't remember-"

"Mireille," I said, clamping down my memory of the night before.

"Mireille. Back in her creative days, I guess," Ned shrugged. "It just became her name."

"Doesn't suit her," Billy said. I flicked my eyes between the two of them. When I'd first arrived, the mood had been jovial, even conspiratorial. Now, however, there was a little tension in the room.

Ned shrugged, apologetic. "Old habits."

"It's okay," I told Billy. "Eat your waffles."

"I've had about five of these things," Billy said, sitting back, rubbing his distended stomach. "You don't know how long I've dreamed about waffles." I turned in my chair to put my feet on the struts underneath his seat. "Almost as much as I dreamed being back here with you." He tweaked my nose, hard, and I gave him the childish squeal he was looking for. They both smiled at me.

"I'm going to run some errands in town today. Want to take a bike ride with Ned and meet up with me?"

The thought of spending the whole day with my two favorite men perked me up. "Really?"

"Really really," Billy checked his watch. "I gotta go if I'm going to pick up my dry cleaning before the line starts. You take your time, though, yeah? I wanna pick up some new books. I'll take forever trying to decide which ones."

After he left, Ned and I cleared off our places, bringing the dishes into the kitchen.

"How long is it since you've ridden a bike?" I asked Ned over my shoulder.

"A couple years now. You're gonna have to mercy me."

"No mercy."

He laughed, then his eyes lit on something behind me, and faltered a little. I turned to see Mary standing at the doorway, taking us in, her mouth turned up just ever so slightly.

"Going for a ride?" She said, her voice jovial. Ned and I looked from her to each other and back.

"Yeah," Ned said, leaning back against the counter. "We were going to meet Billy in town and help him pick out some new reading material." His face was bland, but he seemed uncomfortable.

"Mind if I join?" Mary asked, smiling now. "Sounds like fun."

"We'd love to have you," said Ned, and my heart sank just a little, "but we're biking, and you don't have bike."

"I'll just use the one you used to help me learn," Mary shrugged. I snapped a glance at Ned. Had he never told her it was my bike, or had she forgotten?

"Fawn needs that one, love," said Ned. "And this is kind of a special thing for her and Billy and me," his eyes begged her to understand. I tried to ignore the endearment. Tried to focus on the fact that he was telling her it was just for us.

"Oh. Of course, I'm sorry," Mary shook her head, waving off the awkward moment as if it were a fly. "That was so rude of me! Your brother's here, of course you'd want to do something on your own, Fawn. Ned can just make it up to me later." She winked at Ned. I wanted to melt into a puddle and slip away. She turned, throwing a smile over her shoulder, then left the kitchen, leaving the mood cold behind her.

* * *

><p>The silence between Dr Grant and me stretched out. I tapped my fingers on my chair's arm, feeling for the spots where the material gave away to flimsy lining.<p>

"You're coming on a little strong today, you know that?" I said, planting my feet on the floor .

"Am I?" he shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Sorry about that, Fawn. I'm just one of your many admirers. When I see opportunities for you to be happy, I want you to take them."

* * *

><p>"Hold, up, hold up, hold up," Ned called behind me. I braked, then turned, watching him catch up to me.<p>

"You're way better at this than I am," he panted. "I'm so out of shape, it's not even funny."

"I don't know," I said, squinting up at him. "I think it's pretty funny."

"Har de har har. You're hilarious." He watched me for a little longer than was comfortable.

"What?"

"Oh, sorry. I just-I just have something for you." He dug in his jeans, first in his right pocket, then his left. "Haha! Found it!" He pulled a long, silver chain out by its end, dangling it in the sun for a moment before catching it with both hands and presenting it to me.

"Happy birthday, Flannery Calhoun Price."

I took the chain from his hands with both of mine. "You already gave me a present."

"Well, this isn't really a present, per se. It's more of an addendum to Billy's present. He was telling me how bad he felt that you couldn't wear the necklace he gave you, and I thought this would help. I didn't spend any money on it, Scrooge McDuck, I just asked my mom. She was glad to help. She has enough necklaces. Not that she wears any of them."

This chain was small, and finely made. There were no decorative loops or large clasps, as there had been with Henry's gift. I dug Billy's pouch, the one with the pendant, out of my pocket, and looped the clasp through the hook on the first try.

"This one fits perfectly," I said, satisfied. I turned so Ned could clasp it around my neck.

"This one?" He settled the new chain on the back of my neck before taking a step back.

"Oh. Mary gave me a chain, too. From-" I swallowed Henry's name, "from her and the Grants. And it's nice, but it doesn't fit onto the necklace."

"Oh," Ned looked a little uncomfortable now. "That was really thoughtful. Is there a way to make it work? I don't want to usurp her present."

"This one is prettier. I like it better. And it's a better fit," I turned back to my handlebars, not interested in talking about it any more. "Thank you." I smiled at him, the way Mary had smiled at him. Surprised, he grinned in return.

I took off before he could say anything else.

* * *

><p>"I am curious, though," said Dr Grant, tapping his pen on the blank paper in front of him.<p>

"About what?"

"You do seem more confident than you did the first time we met with each other. I'm not arrogant enough to take credit for it at all, but it did get me wondering. If you think back to the beginning of the summer to now, do you feel more complete now than you did then? Are you more satisfied with how your life is going?"

I thought back to Billy, holding me while I cried. To Ned winking at me, telling Mary she couldn't come with us. I thought back to Mary calling me a princess and doing my hair. I thought, too of the argument between Henry and Mireille, and the cold look from Nola, and the fairytale dress, the toasts from the people I looked up to. I thought about the cake Ned and Billy had bought for me in town, the one with my name, my real name, written on it in frosting, and exactly eighteen candles. We had eaten it in the park, just the three of us.

And I thought of Susie, home alone with an uncle I had never met. I thought of Mireille, who would never stop hating me, and how she had just that day insisted she and Rush get married as soon as possible. She would blame me forever.

"I am more satisfied," I said, watching as Dr Grant nodded thoughtfully.

I didn't offer any more.

"But?"

* * *

><p>AN: There we go! Sorry it was so damn long in coming (hopefully the extra length makes up for it). My summer is long and empty, and my computer is back, so the next parts shouldn't be so slow. Famous last words?


	20. Interlude

_Once there were two sisters, one older, one younger. They had the same hair, the same eyes, the same smile. The hair was their grandmother's, their eyes belonged to their father. No one knew where the smile came from._

_They grew up together in the same house, eating the same food and borrowing each other's clothes. Their parents read them the same bedtime stories, most of which began and ended the same way all bedtime stories begin and end._

_They were the same in every way. But somehow they learned different lessons._

_One sister, the older, learned to scrimp and save and put money by. She liked sparkle at first, because sparkles were a sign of opulence, until she realized that sparkles are actually a sign of low-class, and she couldn't bear to be low-class. She came to appreciate brown leather, and excellent design, and beautiful, understated details, though she would not be able to say if her taste for these things were because she herself liked them or because she knew that she should. She didn't want to be desperate, even though the more money she saved, the more desperate she became._

_The other, the younger, focused on other people. She collected stories and remembered conversations. If you asked her now about things a person she hadn't seen in years, she could recite, word for word, the last conversation they had shared. In some cases, she can probably do the first conversation, or the second, or the third. This sister valued people, not only for the beauty she saw in them, the happiness the very presence of people inspired within her, but also, secretly, ever-so-shamefully, for the way that people seemed to love her._

_The elder sister was not yet cold, but she needed money to make her feel safe._

_The younger sister was not unworldly, but she needed affection to make her happy._

_No one told them that they could have both. They themselves didn't learn that lesson until they had already decided it was too late._

_One day, when the sisters had grown up and it was time for them to leave their parents house, they hugged each other tightly and went off to seek their fortunes. _

_But that is a story for a different day. _


	21. Mothers of Children

When Billy left, so did the summer. I woke up on the morning of Mireille's wedding to feel a cool breeze from the open window sending shivers up and down my spine. I stepped out into the hallway barefoot, and for the first time in months did not hear the drone of the air conditioning. The season was changing, finally.

Memory is an interesting thing. I remember very clearly the morning Billy got back into a taxi and left Mansfield. I remember the way my hand clutched his jacket, the way his whiskers felt against my face, the rough sound of his voice. I remember how, in my anxiety, I clutched the new picture of Susie too tight and left a crumple in the bottom corner, and how my palms sweat when I tried to smooth it out. I remember the way Ned held me as the car drove away, and didn't say anything until I was ready to talk. I think I will remember that moment until the day I die, but I have almost no concrete memories of the weeks leading up to Mireille's wedding.

It had been hasty, this new announcement. The Bertram-Rushworth wedding didn't follow the usual time frame, with the Save the Dates coming this many months before the invitations. Mireille's couture gown had to be rushed, which was no small order, as did Julia's bridesmaid dress. Mireille only wanted one attendant.

I do remember that I sat in the back of the church, and that I wore a dress Mary bought for me to expand my workable wardrobe. I remember not being asked to join the family photo, and not minding. I remember Ned helping me sneak out of the grand ballroom to get a burger after the toasts were done. I remember hiding from the dancing. And I remember that Henry and Mary Crawford sat at a choice table normally reserved for family members-right up front near what the coordinator called The Lover's High Table, right where they could see every bit of Mireille Bertram-Crawford being desperately in love with her new husband.

Almost immediately after the wedding, everything changed. Julia went to Spain with friends, Mireille and Rush left for their honeymoon, Ned went to a writing retreat in Brooklyn he'd always wanted to do, and I was alone in Mansfield once again. The summer had been so full and seemed so long that I had forgotten what it usually meant to be at Mansfield. I had forgotten how long the days were, had forgotten how to find something to do that would keep me out of everyone's way. I had forgotten what silence felt like.

There was a three month stretch of life at Mansfield that seems like a dream now. I wandered from room to room in the main house, and then from main house to guest house, as if I were a phantom searching for my lost body. I read the spine of every book in the library, I revisited old hiding places that Ned had showed me when we were children, I counted the tiles on the floor of the foyer. I made myself scarce.

I don't know if my solitude was actually more severe this time than it had ever been before, or if, after the excitement of Ned being home a whole summer, of Billy coming to visit, of Tom actually talking to me, of having my own party and wearing my own dresses, I became the kind of person who craved company and conversation, such as it was for me. I was at war with myself; from old habit, I knew to hide whenever I heard anyone coming, but found hiding to be unbearable. I longed to see a face, and almost any face would do. I began to wish that I could take my bike and ride it somewhere, anywhere, somewhere where I could meet someone who didn't know me and who would talk to me about their day, about their problems, about anything. I probably could have done that. Fear kept me back. It didn't stop me from daydreaming, though, and daydream I did, with such severity that sometimes I would run into tables and chairs that I had not seen. I developed bruises on my legs and my arms, but that could not stop me from escaping. Not once I started.

There were two things that intervened on my loneliness. One was Mrs Bertram, and the other was Henry Crawford.

I first sat with Mrs Bertram alone on day in mid-October. The house had been silent for over a month now, so much so that I could swear I could hear the kitchen clock tick from my bedroom. I was walking down the hallway as quietly as I could, though I was certain Nola wasn't around to hear me make unwanted noise-I had seen her leave the house, had watched her get in the car from the second story hallway window. Silence had become my habit again, if it hadn't always been. I traced the hallway floorboards with my toe-there were twenty-nine long boards in this row from one end of the house to the other. Two more than the row to the left, and one more than the row to the right. I had done this routine often enough.

A dreamy voice from inside the sitting room startled me, "Fawn? Is that you?" I started, caught off guard, though I really shouldn't have been. I knew where Mrs Bertram spent most of her time. I hesitated, not moving. I wasn't sure whether she wanted me to come to her or if she wanted me to be quiet. Seconds ticked by-I could hear them through the floor.

"Fawn? Come in, love."

I tiptoed into the room, trying not to look at the huge roses in the carpet, trying not to look directly at Mrs Bertram. She was reclined on a plush sofa, her head resting against a pillow, her little dog snoozing in her lap. A quick glance down at the side table showed me that she had brought her pills with her. I glanced quickly up at her face, to see her eyes closed and her mouth almost smiling. She was probably either just waking up from a nap or on her way to one.

She reached out a sleepy hand and patted at the chair next to her. "Come here, Fawn. Sit with me." I sat. A minute passed. She opened her eyes. "How are you, my lovely?"

She had never used words like that, of endearment. Not to me, anyway. I watched her fight to keep her eyes open as she waited for my response. A cloud of confusion passed over her, and then her misty eyes cleared, "Are you lonely with everyone gone?"

I nodded.

"So am I. It was a very busy summer, wasn't it? Not what we're used to having."

I shook my head.

"Are you finding things to occupy your time? Are you bored being here all alone?"

I hesitated, wondering which question to answer. I settled on a nod again.

"Poor baby. Still, it was good Ned was here for so long. I don't think he likes staying here for months on end, but he was so patient with us. With me, especially." She reached out a hand to me, and I took it, not knowing what else to do. Had he really not liked being here this whole summer? Why hadn't he said anything?

"Well, if you're bored, Fawn, you can always come and keep me company. It gets so lonely here without my children all around me. Not that you'd know anything about having children, but they bring joy to every mother's heart. Gathers them around her..." She was drifting off now, her words slurring with sleepiness, but she opened her eyes to look at me, and I fought to give her a smile before she closed them again and started to snore.

She clearly had no idea what she'd said to me.

I spent almost every day in Mrs Bertram's sitting room after that. Most of the time she was asleep or trying her hand at crochet or embroidery, but being in the same room with another person who didn't demand much of me was soothing. With Mrs Bertram napping by my side, I found I could read better, for longer, and I began finishing books in days, not weeks. I wondered what Ned would think, if he could see what I'd finally managed to read by myself. I wondered what Nola would say, if she caught me being idle.

Henry Crawford interrupted my quiet companionship with Mrs Bertram every Saturday at precisely four o'clock. He usually came with something in his hand-a bouquet of wildflowers, a book, a bottle of wine for Mr Bertram, some chocolate truffles. He always came with a smile on his face.

The first day he showed up unannounced, just as Mrs Bertram was fighting her way to wakefulness again. It was a slow process, and she was often upset by even the slightest noise in the hour or so following her afternoon nap. I tried to finish the chapter of the book I was reading-a book called Jane Eyre-but fear of making a noise that would disturb Mrs Bertram had me hesitating to turn my page.

The knock on the doorframe made me jump out of my skin. I whirled to see Henry, one hand on the door frame, one hand holding a bunch of irises, a warm, gentle grin hitching up his mouth. I saw again, for one second, the man Mireille and Julia had been so obsessed with. No one had ever smiled at me exactly like that. Maybe no one had ever smiled at anyone exactly like that.

"Miss Fawn-" he started, but I threw my hands up to stop him talking, making shushing noises, glancing at Mrs Bertram's prostrate form on the couch as I got up and walked over to where Henry stood. He watched me approach him, his eyebrows raised in amusement. When I reached him at the doorway, he sketched a sarcastic half-bow to me.

"Miss Price," he whispered. I watched him as he watched me, clearly expecting some kind of response in kind. I wondered briefly if I should bow back, but instead I whispered back, "w-w-what are you d-doing here?" My voice was rusty from misuse.

"Came to visit you, Miss Price," he kept his face neutral, but I sensed he was on the verge of laughing. "Is that allowed?"

"Fawn?" Mrs Bertram's voice, high and tremulous as a child's, called from the couch. "Fawn, are you there?"

Henry's eyes widened in momentary alarm as he took in the reality of the situation. Maybe he had never seen Mrs Bertram high before.

I left Henry at the door and went over to Mrs Bertram, kneeling down so we were face-to-face, and taking her hands in mine.

"Fawn? Is that you?" Like this, sleepy-eyed and needy, I couldn't be afraid of her.

"It's me. I'm here."

"Who's with you?" She struggled to open her eyes. It took her a long time. Was this was Ned saw every day when he was here? Was that why he didn't like to be home for too long?

Why had he never told me how bad his mother's addiction was?

"It's-" I started, but Henry was next to me, speaking to Mrs Bertram in a quiet, soothing voice. "It's Henry Crawford, Mrs Bertram. I just came to bring you these flowers, but I'm sorry if I came at a bad time."

"Not...a bad time...Just under the weather…" she shook her head slowly.

"Should I come back another time? Another day, perhaps?" He could have been talking to anyone, to his hostess at a dinner party, to the mailman. His voice and his face no longer betrayed any surprise at the situation. I began to wonder if I had actually seen his alarm in the first place.

"Fawn...walk our guest to the door, would you? Tell him I'll be on form next week."

I touched Henry's elbow and drew him to the door. He laid down his flowers on a side table and followed me, his arms swinging at his sides, completely at his ease. I tried not to let our closeness bother me. The ghost of his elbow burned into my palm.

"I meant what I said earlier, Fawn," he said quietly, as if he were talking about the weather. I sent a glance over my shoulder, catching his eye before turning around. I couldn't wait to get him out of the house. Being near him confused me.

"When I said I came to visit you?" He went on, as if I had asked him to clarify. "I meant it. I mean, the flowers were for both you and Mrs Bertram, but I wanted to see you, really." He put a hand on my arm, stopping my progress.

"I've been thinking a lot about this summer. And I know I'm usually only a foot or so away," he gestured vaguely to the Grant's house, "but I missed your company. Wanted to see how you were."

I blinked at him, confused and skeptical. He grinned, chuckling. "Laying it on too thick? Sorry. Just been thinking about you a lot recently, is all."

Nothing he was saying was making it any better. I didn't know how to respond, didn't know what I could say, or should say. Had I done anything to make him think that I wanted him to say these things to me?

I had craved company. I still craved company. Despite the fact that I didn't trust him, and despite the fact that whenever I saw him I still saw his hand caressing Mireille's face, heard his voice saying life isn't fair, felt his hand on the small of my back, I was still happy to see his face. Happy that he was near me, and talking, and talking to me.

A part of me recoiled in disgust. I was in love with Ned, and no matter how hopeless that love was, no matter how doomed, it made me sick to realize that I was attracted to this other man. Especially since I didn't know if I was attracted to him, or to the fact that he was a person in the same room as me who seemed to care what I thought.

I looked away from him, and started toward the kitchen. He put his hand out to stop me. "Can I come and see you again? Your aunt said next week. I'd like to think you'll be here when I come back."

I watched him, an irrational anger rising in me. I remembered another time, when another man wouldn't let me go. I remembered Henry's hand, leaving a red ring around my wrist.

I don't know what I was going to say-I don't know if I knew what I wanted to say then, either. I opened my mouth, and the kitchen door blew open, and there was Aunt Nola, peeling off her gloves. Her expression as she took in the scene-Henry standing close to me, his hand on my arm, my lips parted-can only be described as bitter.

"Fawn." I stepped back from Henry as if I'd burned. I'd heard that tone before.

"Henry. I didn't realize you were visiting today." Her tone warmed audibly when she spoke to him. He glanced at me, and I averted my gaze. Aunt Nola went on, "Fawn has a lot of chores to do for us. Has to earn her keep. Sorry to interrupt, but I can't imagine it was that interesting, as far as conversations go."

With my eyes on my feet, I couldn't see Henry's face. All I know is that there was a moment's pause, and then Henry said, "Fawn was just walking me to the door. I'll be out of her hair in just a moment."

Aunt Nola gave what I'm sure she meant to be a charming laugh. "It's never any trouble to have you here. I'll let you go, then." She brushed past me, her arm bumping mine. It was only when I couldn't hear her feet on the stairs anymore that I brought myself to move. I grabbed Henry's arm and practically dragged him to the door.

He stopped before I flung him through it. "Old dragon. Don't listen to her."

I looked at him in alarm, then collected myself. He laughed, but his smile didn't make it to his eyes. "It can't be that bad. She's a ridiculous old woman."

I was going to be in so much trouble. I was going to be in the most trouble.

Henry pushed open the door, then turned to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Hey. You'll be fine. There's literally nothing she can do to you. Not without the Bertrams throwing her to the wolves. Remember that. She's just boarding here now."

He leaned in and brushed a kiss across my right cheekbone, then was out the door like a shot. I stood frozen for a moment, confused now beyond anything I'd felt before. But I knew that the longer I stayed down in the kitchen, the more I was prolonging the inevitable. Nola always got mad when I made her wait.

The walk from the kitchen to my room was like a death march. It had been a long time since I'd felt I was under Nola's power. Mr Bertram's presence and Ned's company had made me untouchable for a whole summer, and having Mireille and Julia around had made Aunt Nola more agreeable on the whole. I'd gone a long time without an episode. I'd gotten spoiled, left my precious belongings out in plain sight. I wondered which one she was going to choose. I wondered what she would do to it.

The door to my room was open. As I stepped into the doorway, I saw the remnants of my pink ballgown, the dress Mary had helped me pick out, floating to the ground. Nola had taken her shearing scissors and was methodically cutting random shapes out of the skirt. Bits of tulle collected at her feet.

Whenever she destroyed a treasure of mine, Aunt Nola's face was always perfectly calm. I don't think she had ever actually raised her voice to me in anger. She had certainly never hit me. But when I was a child and Aunt Nola decided I had misbehaved, I would find her in my room, ripping a picture Ned had drawn me, or burning the book I'd brought from home, the one Uncle Liam had given me for Christmas, or snapping all my sea shells. I learned not to have prized possessions. I learned to hide the ones I couldn't bear to get rid of the ones I couldn't bear to destroy on my own.

I had grown complacent. I'd thought that I was safe in this house, in this room. I thought Ned could protect me from anything. Even when he wasn't here.

"Fawn," Aunt Nola sounded exhausted and disappointed, "what makes you think that you can host visitors in this house? Is this your house, Fawn?"

I watched her slice a crescent moon of pink fabric into a handful of asteroids, thinking for the first time how petty she seemed. It didn't stop my heart beating in terror.

"Fawn, you know how I feel about being ignored. I asked you a question. Is this your house?"

I shook my head. Tried to remember everything Dr Grant had ever told me. _No one in the world is better than you. No one in the world is better than you. Not even her. No one. No one in the world._

"Do you think it's polite to invite people to a house that doesn't belong to you?"

I shook my head. No chance of my voice making an appearance.

"Did you think it would be fun for Henry Crawford to see Mrs Bertram like that? Did you think that it would be appropriate?"

I shook my head. Twice.

"That's the problem, Fawn," she said, and her voice, if it had been anyone else, if I hadn't known better, might have sounded regretful, "you aren't capable of much deep thinking. Leave that to other people." She took the skirt in two hands and pulled on a cut so the skirt tore down the middle with a large ripping sound.

"Make yourself useful. Earn your keep. Don't throw yourself on people like Henry. Though I have to say, it does remind me a lot of your mother, the way you salivate over the men in this household. She could never control herself, either."

She smiled at me. It was a smile full of deep amusement, of anger, and of cool triumph.

I hated it when she smiled at me like that. Not because I hated whenever she looked at me, though that was true. I hated it when she smiled at me like that, because it was the only time she looked like my mother.

My mother had terrified me, too.


	22. Good Hiding Places

"Are you okay?" I glanced up from my knees to where Dr Grant was sitting, tapping his pencil quietly against his notepad. He had his Doctor Look on. I was starting to be able to recognize his faces now. Doctor Face only happened when he was Deeply Concerned About Something, and it usually came with an inviting cock of the head and slightly narrowed eyes. I thought of the notebook he had given me, full of my thoughts, the lists he'd had me make, the mantras he'd made me repeat. I had been so sure that he could cure me.

I nodded.

"What have you been up to?" I hadn't seen him in a few weeks-he'd been called away for the beginning of the semester. I had seen the long lines of cars driving back to the university, had heard the _boom boom boom _of first semester parties. I would never go to college. No one would ever think I was worth the cost. No one would even think of it.

I shrugged. I didn't feel like talking. I was pretty sure I would be able to, if I wanted to. Dr Grant wasn't terrifying anymore, but I had no desire to try.

"What does the shrug mean?"

I shrugged again. His eyes narrowed further, and he pursed his lips. Unlike with Nola, this expression on Dr Grant wasn't threatening. I was a puzzle to him, and he was trying to figure me out.

"Don't feel like it today?"

I shook my head.

"Did something happen while I was gone?"

I locked eyes with him again, then looked away. The seconds stretched out between us, pushing him to the other side of the room, the other side of the house. The other side of the planet. I found myself wishing he was far, far away from me, and a twinge of guilt swept through me. It wasn't his fault. I didn't want anyone to be near me.

"Fawn, you know I'm here for you, right? There is nothing you could tell me that would make me judge you. Your secrets are safe with me."

He meant it, but I remembered the day when he had turned away from me when I'd told him I didn't want to be a freak anymore. He had judged me then, whatever he said now. He didn't want to judge me, but he'd done it anyway.

"We don't have to talk, you know. We can just sit here, if that's what you'd rather do. You do look tired." He gestured to the couch. "You can take a nap, if you want. But this time is yours, so you get to decide what we do with it."

I tapped my foot on his carpet, watching the curve of the toe of my shoe. I didn't want to talk. I wanted to scream. I wanted to weep. I wanted to wrap my hands around Nola's neck, around Tom's neck, around Mary's neck, Henry's, Mireille's, Julia's, and even Ned's, and strangle them until they noticed me or until they died or until I died. I wanted to be held, to be loved, to be loved unconditionally. I wanted someone to be proud of me for something besides saying a couple words in public. I wanted to cause grievous physical harm to the people I loved most in the world for no reason. To be noticed. Me. The girl who had nightmares that revolved around being noticed at all.

I couldn't tell Dr Grant any of that. He already thought less of me for even thinking I was a freak. What would he think if he found out I actually was one?

* * *

><p>"Fawn, my darling, my dear," Henry said, stretching out next to me, his arm flung across the back of the couch. He wasn't too close, but he was close enough for me to feel the electricity of his nearness. "It has been too long."<p>

It had been a day. It had been fifteen hours. I sent him a look and tried to get to the bottom of the page of my book. We weren't in Mrs Bertram's parlor, but instead in the living room downstairs. Mrs Bertram had sent us down here so we didn't have to whisper around her.

"Not in a talkative mood, are you?"

"N-not really."

"Am I bothering you?" His head tilted toward me, his eyes sparkling with humor. No one had looked at me like that, not since Ned had left. Ned rarely smiled.

Thinking about Ned made me angry and sad at the same time.

"Yes." No stutter.

"Do you want to go for a walk or something? In the great outdoors? It's still nice out there. Still warm enough." He stood up and held out his hand. "Come on, Fawn Price. Let's go for a walk. God knows I could use one."

I looked up at him, my pulse racing with annoyance. "No." I tried to keep my voice level.

He sighed heavily, running his hand through his hair enough to make it stand on end. I found the effect distracting. Henry crouched down in front of me, his eyes a little lower than mine.

"Here's a true story, Fawn. Well, as true as I can make it. When my mom died, I didn't leave my house for, like, three weeks. I shut myself inside, and nothing and nobody could get me to come out, not even Mary. And the bastard of the thing is that when I finally left and went for, like, a walk, I started to feel better immediately. I was so in my own head, you know? Getting outside was like getting out of myself for a little. Now," he held out his hands in a position that indicated surrender, "I'm not suggesting that everyone leaving and you being here alone is the same thing as my mom dying, but it's a change, you know? And you can sit here and try and read fucking Anna Karenina, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that Tolstoy isn't going to make you feel better about your situation. I don't want to make you do anything you don't want to do, but if I have to come into this house tomorrow and watch you walking around like someone died, I'm going to flip my shit. I would really, really, very much, super, definitely, decidedly appreciate your company as I take a turn about the grounds, and I would like to invite you to do so. Capice?"

I gaped at him, mouth open. He had told me more about himself in that one speech than I had ever known about him. I wasn't sure when the last time someone had said so much to me had been, but it had been a long time. I felt my heart melt toward him a little. I had been rude. He was just trying to help, after all.

"Please?" He wore a charming, pleading little smile.

"Let me g-get my shoes," I grumbled, propping myself off the couch. He grinned and high-fived me.

"Awesomesauce. Let's do this."

Henry had been right-it was still warm enough to walk around outside without a jacket. Fall, real fall, was fast approaching, by the smell of the wind. Fall had always been my favorite season.

"I bet you know every corner of these grounds, am I right? Like, you know all the hiding spots and such."

I nodded. "We used to p-play hide-and-seek all the t-t-time."

" 'We'? What, like Mireille and Julia and Tom, too?" His incredulity was so funny I grinned.

"S-sometimes. Mireille liked to s-earch because she didn't want to g-get dirty. She would always give up before she found me, though."

"Why?"

"Because I had the best hiding spot and she never wanted to find me, anyway." I said it matter-of-factly, since it was a matter of fact, but Henry still frowned.

"So you know about all that, then."

I stopped, looking up at him. His surprise was clear on his face.

"I grew up with her, you know. There's n-not m-much I d-don't know about."

He just looked at me, a concerned frown still on his face. I turned away from that face, from what it meant. He had assumed, like everyone else, that I was incapable of understanding what was going on around me just because I couldn't talk about it. Mireille had never wanted me around. Nola had never wanted me around. I had always known that, even as a mousy, timid, damaged eight year old. I had been in a prime position to know when someone didn't want me around. That was how I'd grown up. I wondered if Henry was as capable of understanding true malevolence.

No. No, he wasn't. He hadn't been able to grasp the idea that I didn't want to talk a walk with him. What would he do if someone really, truly rejected him?

I tried not to think about it. It was one thing for someone to reject me, or even Billy. We were used to it at this point. People like us, we could deal with being unwanted. Billy used sarcasm and humor. I used silence. We both pushed on. But people who had grown up adored, the way Henry and Mary had, the way Ned and Tom and Julia and Mireille had, what would it do to them to learn that some things were impossible? How could they even understand that some things were impossible?

I walked away, strolling toward the big tree. I didn't want to think about Ned, who still hadn't called. I didn't want to think that anything was impossible for him.

Henry caught up with me, hands casually in his pockets. "Still, bet that wasn't really the worst fate, right?"

I sent him an amused glance. "N-no one has ever found my hiding p-place." I had said so much already. I was doing well.

"No one? Not even Ned?"

I shook my head, looking away quickly.

He stepped closer, a mischievous look on his face. "Can you tell me? I swear to God I will keep your secret until I die."

He was very close. I could smell him, a clean, soapy, piney smell, blended with something else that was infinitely more confusing. I didn't particularly like him, but I had a brief flash of what might happen if I stepped a bit closer and touched him. What would it be like? How would it feel?

I had looked at Ned like his once, when he was vulnerable and asleep. I had imagined brushing his hair out of his face. I had never imagined spreading my hands over his body, or having him touch me. I had never entertained the possibility of that happening. I was in love with Ned, but I had never imagined him this close to me, had never imagined what it would mean if he touched me the way I had seen Henry touch Mireille. I was not in love with Henry, but I wanted him to kiss me.

I was out of my mind. I was completely out of my mind.

Henry watched my face, and something in his eyes changed. He could read my thoughts on my face, I knew. His hands came up to cup my elbows, warm and firm. My arms bent until my hands touched his abdomen. I could feel him breathing as he pulled me to him.

My first kiss happened underneath a tree at the very beginning of fall. It was sweet, simple, and remarkably innocent, given that the man who was kissing me was adept at ripping women's clothes off with his eyes. In short, the kiss was perfect. It was just with the wrong man.

I pulled back, my hands now flat on Henry's chest to push him away. He looked down at me, confused. "What's the matter?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no way I could explain it to him.

"Well, well, well," came a voice from behind me. Henry released my elbows and I turned to face Mary, a weekender bag thrown over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised, and a wry smile on her face. "I go away for a week and look what happens."

I glanced at Henry, who rolled his eyes at me, then winked. He was clearly not intimidated by Mary.

Not the way I was.

A wide grin spread across Mary's face. "Ned is going to die when I tell him."

* * *

><p>AN: So, excuses excuses here, but my computer died (again) and then I was mid-semester. But now I officially have my Master's and exactly nothing to do until I get a job. So things should be coming faster now. Sorry for the false promises, etc. I love you guys for continuing to read this story. Thank you for your patience, my loves.


	23. Bent Knee

**Trigger warning: (not graphic) mentions of abuse and addiction. Just in case. Because I love you all. **

Back pressed up against the door, I cradled my burning face in my hands. Dinner had been humiliating. Not that anyone had spoken to me, of course, or even about me. Aside from Henry's knee brushing mine accidentally under the table, or Mary's barely-hidden grin, everyone had ignored me as they usually did. All was normal in the household Bertram. But the knowledge of my mistake, and the fact that other people in the room were aware of it, were_ amused _by it, was too much. I sighed, a sound that went on and on and on. Maybe I should just never leave my room. Nothing could happen to me if no one saw me during the day.

Maybe then Nola would be happy.

She had certainly been excited to see Mary. Until dinner, I hadn't realized how much the adults around the table loved the Crawfords—truly loved them—how much their presence brightened up the dull everyday workings of Mansfield life for everyone else. Until dinner, I hadn't realized that anyone else considered Mansfield to be dull. It was something we had in common, even if they would be insulted if I suggested it.

My mind flicked back to my ill-advised kiss with Henry under the tree, and I burned with embarrassment. What had I been thinking? Of all the wrong people in the world to kiss, of all the—what was it? Six billion? Eight? in the world, I had to choose Henry Crawford. I knew what he was. I knew how he was. I had been lonely, yes, and I had been upset and scared, but I had never before stooped to the level of idiocy where I was hovering now.

I groaned.

"Fawn? Are you okay?" It was Mary's voice, calling through the door.

I froze. Maybe if I stayed very still…but no, she knew I was in here. She wouldn't leave until I answered.

Still, I hesitated, making her wait, feeling some slight satisfaction at not jumping up to give her what she wanted.

She waited almost exactly thirty seconds. "Fawn? I heard you in there."

Sighing, I stood up, straightening my locked knees with a grimace. The door squeaked open and then she was in my room, looking at me with a wrinkle of concern between her eyebrows. _Just like Ned,_ I caught myself thinking, then resented the thought, and resented my resentment.

_You're a mess, Flannery Price. _

"So." Mary cocked her head to one side, trying to get a good look at me in the darkening gloom of my unlit bedroom. "About earlier."

I waited, body tensed. I didn't want to talk about earlier.

"Sorry about it. I just…I don't know, you've never seemed like you really…and then…Sorry. Not clear." She waved her hands in front of her face as if to ward away what she'd just said. I stared at her, startled. I'd never seen her like this before.

"So. Start again." She smoothed herself back into her earnest, socially adept self. "Hi. My name is Mary," a grin leaked around the edges of her serious expression. "I would like to apologize to you for my earlier behavior. It was unbecoming, and made you uncomfortable."

I waited. She waited, too, still with the grin hiding just beneath the surface. I didn't think it was particularly funny. She sighed and, adopting a more serious tone, said, "Look, Fawn, I never wanted to make you uncomfortable. I was just surprised. And, I have to say, really happy, too."

I stared at her, my mouth falling open just slightly. She watched me, eyebrows lifting with amusement. "Weird, right? But here's the thing: I know you're young, and I know you have your fair share of challenges, and I know things can be hard for you sometimes, but I gotta tell you that my brother is way more into you than I have ever seen him be into anyone else. He's like a little kid when he talks about you."

Nothing she said made any sense, and I waited again for the punchline to come when she would laugh at my credulity. It never did.

"Fawn, you can't be serious. You saw how he was with Mireille. Is he anything like that with you?"

_That _point didn't make sense, either. Mireille was Mireille, and I, clearly, was not. Why would someone like Henry Crawford be the same for her and for me, when we were so different? And why, really, most importantly, would Henry Crawford be attracted to me in the first place? Unless it was because there was no one else around for him to focus on. That would probably explain a lot, come to think of it.

"He won't stop talking about you. He never talks about anyone he dates. He's crazy about you. Which, yeah, I know, weird because you're a lot younger, but you've got an old soul, you know that? You're pretty damn wise. You should think about that."

What it was, precisely, that she wanted me to think about eluded me. My wisdom? Henry? How young I was compared to everyone else? I wished I had the kind of personality that could throw people out of my room. I wished, for the first time, that I had been raised by my mother. She would have taught me to be rude to people. I could use a little rudeness.

Immediately after that thought, chagrin swept through me. There was a reason my mother hadn't raised me. I wouldn't be rude. I'd be dead.

I couldn't wish that kind of behavior on Mary, even when she made no sense.

Mary sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Sorry, honey. I know this is all new for you. And confusing. And weird. I get it. I just came from seeing Ned, and—" She looked at me, watched me try to not react to hearing Ned's name. "You miss him, too, don't you? I miss him. I missed him when we were together in New York. He's—well, he's happy. He's in his element, having all these philosophical, metaphysical conversations with grumpy old people all day. He's reading the Bible and writing essays on it and, God, I don't know, probably saving his soul and having the time of his life, and I was just so _bored_ for most of the time, so I'm probably trying to get my brother together with you so I can ignore how I feel about Ned. He was happy to see me, don't get me wrong, and I was happy to see him, but it was different, because he was in his world and I was this guest in it, and I kept wishing he'd be something _normal_, like a lawyer or a professor or something, but instead he's going to seminary, and I could feel people's eyes judging us every time we kissed. Do you think you can talk to him about it? I tried, but he wouldn't listen to me. He'd listen to you, though."

I tore my eyes away from her, walking toward the window to look out over the garden. Even the small amount of interest I'd had in the conversation before had withered away into nothing. I didn't want to hear about Ned, not like this. Ned, who still hadn't called. Did he think I would try to persuade him to be a lawyer, if he called me? Did he think I would try to get him to listen to what Mary wanted? I wasn't sure. I hadn't been sure before, and I definitely wasn't sure now.

Mary was in love with Ned. I could hear it in her voice, see it on her face. Ned was in love with Mary. I knew it by the way he almost never talked about her with me. He talked about everyone and everything else. If I loved Ned the way I said I did, I should want him to be happy. Mary made him happy. I should want that for him.

I was having a hard time being loving. I was having a hard time being accepting. I was having a hard time with Mary.

Was it just that she loved the same man as me? Or that she'd appeared right when I'd figured it out? Was it that she was beautiful and whole and smart and that people loved her?

What was the matter with her? What was the matter with me?

It had started to rain. The tree under which Henry had kissed me was bowing its leaves to the fall of raindrops, the moisture giving the grass a silvery sheen. The sky looked oddly light, as if once it rid itself of its burden it would fly off, or be burned away by the reemergence of the sun.

_I hate it here_. The thought came unbidden, but came it did, and it was stuck. The realization made me grip the windowsill, swallowing and swallowing until the lump in my throat dissolved. _I hate it here. I want to leave. _

Except I had nowhere to go.

"Fawn?" I didn't turn. I wasn't ready to look at anyone.

"Fawn, I'm sorry. I forgot. I keep forgetting. You don't need to talk to Ned for me."

I nodded, my back still to her.

The silence stretched on. Rain pelted the glass in front of my face.

I had nowhere to go. Nowhere I was brave enough to go, anyway. And no money to get there. And no skills for once I'd arrived.

I was stuck here. I was stuck here, probably forever.

"Fawn? Did you paint these?" The question came suddenly, and it took me a moment to realize what she'd said. Once it hit, I whipped around to find her knee deep in the debris of my closet, holding up two paintings, one in each hand, and looking down at a third. She turned back to look at me with a fierce kind of joy, and expression mixed with true wonder.

I stood frozen, my heart beating through my ribcage. _No_, it said, _wrong, _it said, _don't touch. It doesn't belong to you_.

I had never felt less safe. There was no way I could say those things.

Mary turned to face me, holding each painting with a kind of reverence.

"Why didn't anyone tell me you could paint like this?"

* * *

><p><em>Here is a story, as true as I can tell it:<em>

_The sisters went on their separate ways one morning in late August. Neither of them travelled very far from home. Neither of them went home again. _

_The elder sister became friends with the kind of people she had always looked at with envy. Her first boyfriend drove a Rolls. The second drove an Aston Martin. It mattered to get them in order. When she was old enough to get married without being trashy or stupid, but still young enough to not be called desperate, she married her third boyfriend, a man whose family owned four or five islands in the South Pacific, islands that had been passed down through the family since the 1880s. _

_Old money. _

_She had wanted to enjoy her fortune, and for a while she did. They travelled to Paris every year. They spent winter in the Alps. They went to the theater. She had a new gown for every black tie event. There were several black tie events. She drank good wine and ate excellent food and was thoroughly satisfied, even when her husband decided he wanted a career at a university, of all places. They would live near his family. His family were the right kind of people. She was sated, if not satisfied. _

_She wasn't sure if she'd never loved her husband, or if she fell out of love with him when they stopped travelling together. She wasn't sure if it had been him alone or him and his money that had been attractive to her. She found she didn't particularly care. Nor did she particularly care for the sedate, boring life that came with being attached to the academic year. _

_What she did love, though, were her nieces. She had two, and two nephews as well, but she'd never connected with boys the way she had with girls. And her nieces were beautiful—intelligent, funny, well-dressed, proper. They were the right sort of woman. Or would be, with enough guidance. She found a joy in those girls the way their mother, drug-addled and depressed, never could. She found a peace with them the way she never had with her husband, not even in Paris. Not even drinking pink Egly-Ouriet from impeccable stemware. _

_The elder sister had pursued money and had fallen in love instead. Not carnal, romantic love, but a lighter, more profound, more interesting kind of love. She had never wanted children of her own, but the elder sister didn't need her own children. She had her nieces, her real nieces. Her beautiful, clever, well brought up nieces. _

_The right people. _

_The younger sister looked for love, and looked for satisfaction. She couldn't tell the difference. Her first boyfriend told her he loved her, then left her. Her second boyfriend was with her for two years, but was also with someone else. She started drinking on the nights her left her alone. She hated being alone. Her third boyfriend, the sweet, blond Will with his Irish snub nose and the trashy Southie accent, would never leave her. Not ever. She loved that about him. And she loved the first baby they had together, a little earlier than the elder sister would have approved of. She loved that baby, but didn't love the way he cried, and didn't love the way she couldn't go out at night after they had him, and didn't love his temper tantrums. She didn't love the way he dragged her out of bed at night, when her head was hammering and her stomach was turning over and he needed something but she didn't understand his baby talk. She didn't love the way she lost her temper with him. Every so often, at first, then every day. _

_And then there was the second one. Quieter than the first, and just as cute, with her big eyes and brown hair, and her father's cheekbones, but just as needy. She wouldn't even cry when she wanted something. She'd just look at you, and look at you, and there was no way of telling what she wanted, and she wouldn't tell you, and then she wouldn't speak at all, just stare. _

_Younger sister lost her temper more and more, until she made the first baby cry, and her husband swear, and through it all the second baby just stared and stared. _

_Younger sister left the house more often. If she'd been more educated, maybe she could have helped her second baby. At least, that's what she told herself. If she'd known more. If she had more money. If her husband had more class. If she had more options. Instead she had nothing. Just a beautiful, drunk husband and a beautiful, angry son and a beautiful, silent daughter, and it was too much. Younger sister left the house to go drink where little eyes couldn't watch her. She avoided her daughter's eyes. She stopped even trying to play with her. _

_None of that made any difference. Younger sister was still angry. _

_Angry, and, it turned out, violent. _

_Which was a surprise even to her, though it felt far more powerful than searching for love ever had. _


	24. Two Hundred Blocks

It was two in the morning by the time I could bring myself to press the TALK button. My chair was under the door knob, effectively locking any and all intruders out, but I was still in my closet, nestled among someone else's old shoes, at the very back, where my paintings had once been. The phone on the other end of the line rang so loudly I held it away from my ear, trying to soothe the nerves that were already jangling.

I called three times before Ned picked up.

"Hi, hello?" Came his voice from the other end, groggy with sleep.

I breathed, then again, then said, "Ned?"

"Fawn? What's the matter?"

Tears welled up in my eyes and in my voice. "Ned, can you come home?"

He sighed then, desperately forcing himself to stay awake, when his body just wanted to go back to sleep. I thought I could see him rubbing his hands over his face and head, getting used to being up.

"What's the matter? Did something happen?"

I paused, reaching the moment I had been dreading, the reason I had avoided calling him until I was on the edge of a panic attack, myself. What could I say to him? Come home because I kissed someone and it was a mistake? Come home, they want to sell my paintings? Come home, I'm not safe here? Any one of those required more explanation, and I couldn't explain. Not to Ned. Not to anyone.

So instead I settled for "Can you just come home? Please?" The tears had started running down my face, and my breath hitched around the sob lodged somewhere in my throat. I pressed my knuckles to my mouth. "C-come home, please."

"Of course," he said, "of course I'll come home. Are you okay? Are you in any danger?"

I sniffled, unsure, then decided on, "Not danger, no." Would it mean he wouldn't come after all? Maybe I should have said something different. Maybe I should have told him I was dying.

"Good. Stay where you are, okay? Exactly where you are. Don't move a muscle. I'm going to have some coffee and I'll grab a couple things, and then I'll be there. I'll probably be there before you wake up, okay, Fawn?"

I nodded, panting.

"Fawn? I promise you I'll be there soon. It's a couple hours, and the roads are clear. I be there before you know it. Can you hear me?"

I swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah."

"Good. I'm putting my shoes on right now, and I'm grabbing my keys and my wallet, and I'll shove a t-shirt or two into a bag, and then I'm out. Can you reach a timer? Can you see a clock?"

Screwing up my courage, I opened my closet door a crack. The clock read 2:07am. "Yeah, I can see a clock."

"Okay. On a bad day, in the middle of traffic, it takes maybe an hour and a half to get from here to Mansfield. I'll be there before three thirty. I'll probably be there before three. So if you can't sleep, just watch your clock. I'll be there before you know it."

I nodded again, my head lolling to rest on the wall of my closet.

"Fawn?"

"Yeah," I croaked. "Okay." Then, quietly, "Thank you."

"Don't ever thank me. I love you." He hung up.

I stared at the phone for a second. He had told me he'd loved me before, at least a couple times. Once when he was sixteen, and I was twelve, and I'd fallen and sprained my wrist, he had cajoled me back to the main house for ice and one of Tom's old slings. If he hadn't told me he loved me, I would never have dared risking Nola's wrath. Then, even before that, when he had had to make a list of the people he loved, to be handed in to his stern eighth-grade English teacher, my name had been fourth, under Tom's but before Mireille's. That list, I realized, was much like what had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

Ned had told me not to move a muscle, but he was going to get here before three in the morning, and my door was locked with a chair. If I fell asleep, and it was seeming more and more likely with every passing minute that I would, he wouldn't be able to get to me quietly.

With a groan much like Ned's, I forced myself to my feet, pushing my way clumsily out of my closet, tripping over the shoes that had been my seat cushions. I removed the chair from under the doorknob, then stood back, watching the door for something. Was is fear that the door would open? Was it hope that it would be Henry?

An act of faith, I thought, remembering Ned, just Ned, all of Ned. I put the chair down next to its partner desk, curled up on my bed, and fell asleep, dreaming of doors, dreaming of Dr Bertram's angry face, dreaming of being eaten.

* * *

><p>For most people, the idea of a professional art career might not be so terrible. When Mary, in her delirious admiration for my work, had ignored my silent protests and brought my work down to show the whole family, a part of me had, indeed, been flattered. Were they that good, these things I had made? Did they merit that much attention?<p>

But then, not contented with the three Mary had shown him, Dr Bertram took the stairs two at a time, and pulled each and every one of the two hundred or so wood blocks, old canvases, pieces of cardboard, and other suitable flat surfaces I'd found to decorate over my ten years at Mansfield, I felt a distinct rise of panic and something else within me. It was something like gorge, something like disgust.

They all loved them, all of them. Apparently, I paint in a particular style that had a certain name to it-Henry snapped his fingers, trying to recall the proper word-but rather than being like, that guy, that New England guy, Turner! That guy Turner, who was largely impressionistic, I was abstract. There was no form to my work but the form of my work, you know?

Nola stood at my threshold, watching the proceedings with a grim sort of sardonic smile, more turned inward than outward. Those watching might have mistaken it for humor or self-effacement, but it was the same face she'd worn that one time I'd beaten her in Go Fish when I was ten, and I'd chosen to sleep on the grounds than be anywhere near her. I was thankful for the solid, emotive buffer that Henry bestowed, even while I wished he were a thousand miles away, too.

They had to be shown, of course. Of course they did. The world needed to see that kind of work, that kind of raw, brilliant, untrained talent. Henry's face was flushed, his eyes bright and earnest, his relaxed, side-stretched grin full of exuberance, full of a kind of reverence. I was so talented. I was just so, so damn talented. Everyone had to see that. How could they not? He rested his hand on my shoulder, briefly, and I felt the current that ran from him to me. Even now, even like this, I wanted to know what his hands felt like on my body. He could make me forget how afraid I was, I thought.

I was nauseous the whole day.

Mary and Henry knew someone, there was this man in a small gallery in New York. Nothing fancy, you understand, but definitely a start, and that way the papers could find me first, and I could work my way up.

At that, I found my voice. To this day, I don't know where it came from, or how, of all times to speak, the facility came to me on that day, on that hour. I should have, by rights, been silent, cowering behind my hair or my shyness or even the nearest piece of furniture, but suddenly Henry had his hand on the phone, ready to find his contact, and everyone was turned toward him, exclaiming at the same time, and I, from the back of the room, said, "Don't do that."

No stutter. No hesitation.

Henry heard me, in the midst of his elation, and snapped his head up to look at me. "What?"

"Don't call that man." My head was spinning; I couldn't take deep breaths.

"Why not? Fawn?" He stepped toward me, pocketing his phone so he could reach out to me with both hands, cradling my elbows with his palms. "What's the matter?"

Having him so close was harder for me, but I pressed on. "They're mine. They don't belong to anyone else. They're not for anyone else to see. I don't want you to c-c-call him." I tried not to beg him, but I think my eyes did it despite my best efforts to control my voice. He looked alarmed and a little flustered, as if I were missing a very obvious point.

"Fawn, no one's trying to take them from you. We don't have to, like, sell them, or anything. Even though you could make bank on them without breaking a sweat, we don't have to sell them." He stepped closer, and my hands touched his chest. "But they're amazing. Your paintings are amazing. The world should see them. I want to see people see them for the first time." Perhaps it was me, but there was an uncomfortable hush around the room as Henry and I stood so close together. I dared not look at Nola, who had wanted Henry for Julia, or at Dr Bertram or his wife, who were probably non-plussed. I dared not think too much about myself, either, because I knew who I wanted, and it wasn't Henry. Not really.

"They're mine," I said, this time not stammering a bit. "I don't want to show them anywhere."

* * *

><p>The discussion had gone on late into the day. I was wrong, and everyone knew it. Everyone, it seemed, but me. I didn't understand.<p>

I understood. Each of those paintings had been done at particular moment in my life, notable only for the depth of feeling I'd wanted to express and had not been able to. There were over two hundred of them, of all sizes, and all of them were reminders of when I'd been in intense emotional pain. The thought of someone, anyone, everyone, standing in front of them, hung about prettily in an airy art gallery, and calling them beautiful made me feel sick to my stomach.

No. No. There was no way that was going to happen. No.

Dr Bertram was most vocal, moreso even than Henry, who was amazed by my refusal. I was ignorant, Dr Bertram said. I was unable to see that this was a gift unlike any that I'd been given before. Not everyone had special skills, he said, no matter what we tell our children. And I had been least special of all, until this minute. I had a duty to that skill and to myself and to my family.

I crumpled as he spoke, but I didn't cave.

No, no, I said. Never, I said. No.

And finally, when he was angry and tired of looking at me and my idiocy, Dr Bertram had banished me to my room like the petulant child he had assumed I was, like the petulant child I had prayed they would treat me far before things grew tense.

That had been at eight in the evening. It took me six more hours to decide to call Ned, and still I had almost put the phone down, buried it beneath a pile of someone else's shoes, and pretended to forget my presumption. But Ned had promised, once, to run away with me, wherever it was I decided we should go. He had told me, when I was eleven, that he would trust me with his life. Surely now, after everything, I could call him when I was in need, even if I'd never done it before. Even if I would never do it again.

I didn't believe in God, but when I dialed that phone, I admit I was praying to whatever it was that had answered Ned's prayers all his life. Please, I thought, pausing after the area code, please. If I never call him again. If this is the only time I can bring him away from his life and his career for me, please let it be this time. Please, I need him now. I need him more than ever.

Please.

* * *

><p>I woke up to a hand smoothing the hair out of my eyes. It was still dark outside, and for a moment, a horrible moment, I thought it was Henry sitting on the bed next to me, touching my face. I sat bolt upright, shot out of my chair with a kind of terrified, electric excitement.<p>

But it was Ned who caught me by the shoulders, and it was Ned who, quietly, so as not to frighten me or awake anyone else, murmured "It's just me, I'm sorry. It's just me."

I let my heart calm down while I leaned my head against his shoulder, drawing strength from him the way I'd done at the beginning of the summer. His hands didn't drop from my shoulders; they held on to me, and I held on to him.

"I didn't want to startle you. Didn't want to wake you, but I wanted to to know I'd kept my promise. I'm here. You're safe." He rocked me, side to side, like I had seen mothers do with their children. Maybe Uncle Liam had done that for Susie, when she was growing up. Or maybe he wasn't the kind of person who would rock a baby in her sleep.

I started to cry then. Maybe it was having Ned close to me, touching me, when I needed him most, and maybe it was what had happened that day, and all that had happened that year, and maybe it was stress, or depression, but I think it was thinking about Susie, a baby in my uncle's arms, a baby I hadn't seen since two months after she was born. I hadn't seen her grow up-I didn't know the kind of man I had left her to. That, too, was painted on a wooden square. That, too, would Dr Bertram show the world, and for that, too, should I be grateful.

Oh, God.

Ned didn't try to shush me, made no attempt to stop me. He made some small, soothing sound in his throat, then held me gently, smoothing his hand up and down my back as I cried. I gripped him, too, my hands reaching out for his sleeves, for the buttons along the front of his shirt, for his chest itself, the hard, solid, beautiful weight of him.

When I hiccupped to a stop, Ned wiped my eyes with his hands and held out a tissue for me to blow a honking snort with, then he lay me back down on my bed. My clock now read ten minutes to four in the morning. All civilized folk were in bed by now. There was a moment where I panicked, sure that he would cover me in my blanket and sneak out the door to sleep in his own room, but he covered us both with my quilt and lay down next to me, his arms around me, his breathing in my ear.

And I slept, then, better than I had done in weeks.


	25. Kill Your Darling

By the time that I woke up again, the sun sat high in the sky. Ned was gone; he'd probably gotten up at his usual time, regardless of the interruption of his sleep. He'd let me sleep on, though.

I dragged myself to the side of my bed, letting my legs fall heavily to the floor. Reaching up, I could feel that my hair had become a rat's nest, and I hauled myself to my feet to confront my face in the mirror.

Crying always made my eyes swollen the next day, and this was no exception: bluish-purple dark circles sagged underneath white bags. I blinked, rubbing my eyes, feeling the grit left behind. Short of avoiding all human contact, there was nothing I could do to make my eyes look better, and as tempting as that sounded, I had to be ready. Ned was home. I was going to have to fight to be heard.

My hair, at least, I could do something about. I picked up my hair brush and pulled it through from the top to the bottom, mercilessly dragging on the snarls and knots until the brush ran through clean. I know, now, that you should start at the bottom when brushing hair, but that was not the way I'd learned. My scalp smarting, I replaced my hairbrush on my bureau with a kind of ceremonial reverence, then took a look at my clothes.

I hadn't changed into pajamas last night, and Ned had not insisted. My jeans were rumpled and had been worn a few days too many, while my shirt was hopelessly wrinkled. I sniffed myself experimentally and wrinkled my nose at how stale I smelled. Ned had slept next to me when I smelled like this? Humiliation burned a hollow in my stomach. I checked myself in the mirror. No blush. Well, at least I still had that.

I cast about for something to wear that would help me. Mireille's impeccable wardrobe had struck fear into my heart for as long as I could remember-could a dress and a high bun do the same for me, regardless of my tear-dried face? The dress that I had worn to Mireille's own wedding, the one Mary had bought for me, hung in my closet, next to the remnants of my ballgown. I slipped it over my head, feeling the silky lining slither over my bare skin. I gazed longingly at my old, rumpled clothes for a moment, before lacing a pair of flats on my feet, turning toward the mirror to approximate the high, sleek bun I had seen Mary, Mireille, and Julia sport from time to time.

I stepped back, taking in the effect. I thought I looked like a child, like myself as a child, pale and serious. My cheekbones stood out more than they had ever done before, probably a testament to my anxiety of late. I had never been kind to myself, though. Henry found something in me that attracted him, Billy and Ned found something here to love. Maybe I wasn't what they thought I was, but so, too, could I be more than I assumed I had always been.

I would bank on that, then, to make my case. Henry had said, once, that Dr Bertram loved me. Ned had said something similar, come to that. I would need his latent good will, then, because Dr Bertram was none too pleased with me.

I steeled myself for the rest of the world, taking one, two, three breaths before opening the door. If Ned had not been there, I probably would still be in the closet, refusing to come out. As it was, the prospect of seeing his face in the daylight, of having his support, carried me down the stairs and into the quiet living room, where he stood stock still in front of the wall of my paintings.

I watched him, not speaking. He had one arm folded across his chest, while his bracing right arm swept up so that his chin rested on his hand. From behind, he looked as serious as I felt. I shifted my weight to lean against the doorframe, and the floorboard squeaked beneath my feet.

His head turned, slowly, at we were eye to eye. He, too, had dark circles, though they did not seem as bad as mine. He, too, was ashen.

I waited for him to speak. He should have spoken, accused me, questioned me, demanded to know what I had thought I was doing, laughed at my poor skill, thrown himself down on the ground and begged for my mercy. He should have done something, rather than stand perfectly still, watching me watch him.

Finally, turning back to look at my work, he said, in a voice barely loud enough to hear, "Where did you get the paint?"

The clock in the dining room ticked a few times. "Mireille didn't end up using much of what she asked for. She never missed it."

He nodded, both arms folded across his chest, now. "Risky," was all he said.

I nodded, too, but he couldn't see me. He didn't turn around for reply.

"Mary found them," I said. "I didn't want her to."

"I know."

"And they went through my things to find them all. They didn't listen to me when I said no."

"I can imagine."

There wasn't much else to say, after that. I watched his back, waiting for him to say something, offer something, that let me know how he was feeling. It was a lot of information to take in, after no sleep.

The clock ticked a minute away, then he turned his head back to me, a small smile fighting its way across his face. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He clamped his lips over more. I waited for my heart to return to its normal place.

"Why didn't you ever tell me what you were writing in your books?" It wasn't meant to be accusatory, but he reared back ever so slightly, and I knew I had to explain the question rather than let it hang. "Because it was personal, Ned. And not the kind of personal that I can share with you. The other kind. What you write in your notebooks is none of my business unless you wanted it to be. This is the same for me." For me, that was a whole stump speech. Not bad under the circumstances.

He nodded in understanding, but his face looked anything but pleased. He turned, slightly, looking at the same picture he had been staring at when I'd arrived, and pointed a finger at it.

"What happened here?" I thought, for a moment, that he meant a defect in the paint of some kind, and I took a step or two forward before I realized his real question. Not what went wrong with the painting. He meant, what had happened to me that made me paint it in the first place. He face was full to me, now, deadly serious.

I stared at the painting for a moment, trying to remember. It had yellow in it, and a kind of strange blue-green, with some red. When had I had those colors?

It dawned on me, and I shivered slightly, resisting the urge to rub my hands up and down my arms for warmth. "That was right after you left for college," I said, not daring to look at his face. "Nola decided to tell me about my mother. All about her. And she thought it would be nice to tell me exactly where I was the same as my mother, which was most everywhere. Excepting that my mother was just a whore, whereas I'm a freak."

If possible, his face grew even paler, and he turned a little away from me.

"And why didn't you tell me that?"

I looked up at him, then in consternation. "I just told you."

He had his hands on his hips, now, his head bent. He was taking deep breaths. When he spoke, it was quietly, though it was in a tone he had never directed at me- clear and detached, a little aloof.

"You told me that your paintings are private, which I understand. Or will understand. But what you just told me is that Nola abused you. Why didn't you tell me that?" He stared resolutely at the wall behind my work, his eyes blinking rapidly.

A bubble seemed to rise up in me, something from a place so dark and brutal it was no wonder I had sought to hide it so long. Maybe, if I, the freak, had been the same as my mother, the whore, I would have hit Ned where he stood, knocking him to the ground. But Billy had raised me, and so had Ned, and so had I, and so instead it was my voice that was violent, not my words, and not my hands.

"You didn't know? How could you not know?"

He turned to stare at me, then, and the look that he gave me, the horror in his eyes, was too much for me to bear, and yet still I didn't look away.

"How many of these are there?" He whispered, swallowing, glancing around the room before locking eyes with me again.

"Over two hundred, I think. Something like two-twenty."

He closed his eyes, head bowing slightly, then brought his hands up to rub his face and hair, sending the latter up into spikes and curls on the top of his head. He turned away from me again, presumably to look out the window. I could see the rise and fall of his breath, but my inability to see his face made me nervous.

I cleared my throat to rid it of my earlier brutality. "Ned?"

He turned his head slightly to indicate that he was listening, but made no move otherwise.

"Ned, I need your help. These are..." I bit my lip, fumbling, "they're not for anyone. Not for just anyone, anyway. I can't show them to other people. Please help me."

Back stiff, Ned spoke over his shoulder, "But do you realize that if you sold them, you would have enough money to never need to see any of us ever again?" He turned around to look at me. "You could get out of here and never, ever have to come back."

I gaped at him, and something hit me. "Did your father talk to you?"

He didn't move.

"Did he? Did he ask you to talk to me about this?" I gestured at the paintings that stared down at us, accusing.

Ned sighed. "He did."

If had woken up sooner. If I'd only not slept. If I'd taken the time to explain on the phone. If I'd told him years beforehand, this wouldn't be happening.

Ned went on, "He did ask me, order me, really," the displeasure in his voice was obvious, "but I wasn't going to tell you to do something you shouldn't do. I would never do that. Knowingly," he added, finally turning to glare at my art, the walls, the carpet, his shoes, everything but me.

"But you think I should, don't you?" Maybe I had no more tears. Maybe I was dry, wrung out, and clean. There was certainly a feeling in my lungs that was akin to being scrubbed fiercely with a brillo pad.

"I would never have...I just…" he ran his hand over his hair again, then took a deep breath. "Fawn, in this room right now, we have about five million dollars worth of art."

I stared at him for a second before I started to giggle hysterically.

"It's true! Each one of these...you earned it, that money. You deserve it. If you showed your work, you'd sell it, and once you've sold it, you can do anything, go anywhere-"

"College?"

He blanched, his faced reddening. "College. Or anywhere."

"I can barely read, Ned." The admission, when it came, was not as hard as I thought it would be. I remembered Henry telling me that the only time I spoke to him was when I was angry at him. Maybe that was the case here, too, though the rush that went through me now was not much like the anger I'd experienced in my life. "I can barely read, and my handwriting is like a child's handwriting, and I haven't done any schoolwork or been taught anything of much value since I was fourteen, when Nola decided she had done what we was obligated to do, and didn't want to babysit me anymore."

"Babysit-" he bit of the end of the word in a breathless halt.

"Ned, I haven't been in school since I was fourteen. I don't know anything. Even if I had seven million dollars, who the hell would take me?"

"Most people," he said, lifting a sardonic eyebrow to himself before realizing how inappropriate his comment seemed.

"I need you, Ned," I said then, not knowing how I dared put it into words. "I need you to help me, because I'm not going to sell this stuff. I'm going to burn it as soon as we're done talking, and nothing anyone can say can make me change my mind. I need you to support me, okay? Can you do that?" I was pleading now, but still no tears had come to my eyes.

He watched me, ashen face to ashen face, taking in my dress, the circles under my eyes, my hair, the desperate seriousness of my face, and slowly, very slowly, so that I couldn't mistake the movement, he shook his head.

"No. I'm sorry, Fawn, but I can't do that."

I stepped backward two, three paces, and he watched me go. I don't know if he was breathing. I know I wasn't.

I turned to run out the door, but something stopped me, something hard, and firm, and previously undiscovered. I turned, and seeing his eyes still on me, I raised my head the way I'd seen Mireille do when she was angry, and said, "My name is Flannery."

I was out of the door a second later, and outside on the grounds four seconds after that.

* * *

><p>Henry found me shivering on a bench by the garden about twenty minutes later. He dropped beside me without being asked, and peeled off his jacket, offering it to me. When I made no move to take it, he placed it neatly around my shoulders before turning to kick his feet in the gravel.<p>

"Heard you and Ned arguing," he said by way of introduction.

I nodded. I had no energy to be embarrassed or angry.

"Couldn't hear the actual words, with you two being so polite and all," he tilted his head at me, cocking a quick, sidelong grin at me, "but I got the general gist. He thinks you should show them, too, doesn't he?"

I said nothing, sighing as I stared out across the garden.

"Well, he would, smart guy like him. Not that you're not smart, Miss Price, but you're a little closer to this than any of us. I don't imagine anyone sees the art they create in a really objective kind of light."

There was a rosebush at the other end of the path. I tried counting how many leaves were on the branch closest to me.

"I've always been a little jealous of Ned, as long as we're being honest," Henry said quietly, picking at a stray thread in his jeans. "He always seemed to have it together, to have his life figured out, to have direction. I've always thought that was pretty cool. Plus he has someone like you to watch out for him and care about him, love him unconditionally." He trailed off, probably waiting for me to say something. I didn't.

"Of course, there's Mary," he said, as if I had, in fact, made a remark of some kind, "and she loves me, and supports me, too, and we're pretty much best friends, but somehow it's a different kind of thing with you and Ned. Not that I'd want a thing like that with Mary, something other than sisterly love, since, gross, but no, the two of you, Ned and you, you're different. You're always watching him. He's always watching you. It's pretty amazing. So yeah, I'm jealous of him."

I breathed in and out, in and out. Ned's finger was pointing at a picture I'd made, and he was asking, horrified, "What happened?"

Always watching me? Always?

"So I don't think you're right, Price, when you say that you shouldn't get whatever you can out of that talent of yours. Because that's the friendly concern, you understand. And I don't think you're right, either, when you say that what's private shouldn't be public, because you know, art imitates life imitates art, all that," he waved his hand in vague circles. "But that's not friendly concern, on my part. That's purely self-interested, you understand, because I'd very much like to tell you how I feel about you."

I stopped, turning to look at him. He was serious, too. Everyone was so serious. I waited for him to smile foolishly, to make fun of me for believing him, but he considered me instead, leaning back on his hands.

"So, here's the deal: I'm in love with you. Have been for a while, probably will be for a while, though I've never done this before, so I'm not sure how I do it, exactly. I'm just straight up crazy in love with you. And so I want other people to see how talented you are, because I want them to be jealous of me, I guess," he smiled again, that self-deprecating grin, "because I'm lucky enough to be with you, and they're not."

There was a pause as I stared at him.

He looked at me then, his brows knit in a kind of smiling frown. "You had to have known. Mary told me she mentioned me to you. How could you not have known?"

I stared at him, the way Ned had stared at me.

"I thought...Never mind what I thought. You like me, too, don't you? Even if it's not love yet?"

Yet. So sure.

"I know you like me."

I shook my head, and his face fell, leaving the frown but taking everything else.

"No, you don't like me? Or no, you didn't know I liked you?"

Both. Neither.

"What is it?" He genuinely didn't know. He actually had no idea. "Is it Ned? Because he's with Mary, so it's not like that's going to happen." His voice, so soothing a minute ago, was growing caustic, and he realized it, too, because he paused and took a minute to collect himself. "Maybe this is all a little too much a little too quickly, and I'm sorry about that, but still, I need to know."

"You threw Mireille away like she was nothing."

Whatever he had been expecting, it clearly wasn't that.

"What?"

"You f-flirted with her and encouraged her to cheat on her fiance, then you threw her away w-when she bored you."

"Are you seriously going to tell me that you care about Mireille now? She's not your family."

"I grew up with her. I may not l-love her, but I owe her more than I owe you."

His mouth opened and closed it twice, at once lost for words.

"Are you serious?"

"You pretended to care about her and then you took that away."

"Because I was starting to fall in love with you! She doesn't mean anything to me." His ears were getting red now, something I'd never seen before in him. He was an actor, but he wasn't acting now, I didn't think.

My voice was calm, like Ned's had been. It was so easy to be calm, now that I'd offended everyone. I'd offended everyone and I was still alive. "That's never something you should say about anyone."

He rolled his eyes, heaving himself off the bench to pace in front of me.

"If you didn't c-care about M-Mireille, you could just as easily not c-care about me the next t-t-time you find someone you like. I've seen it happen before t-to s-someone else. Why wouldn't it happen to me, t-too?"

Henry, too, brought his hands into his hair, in a gesture of unmistakable distress. He didn't say anything to contradict me, though. Not yet.

"I m-may have b-been quiet, Henry. I wasn't b-blind."

He stopped in his tracks and whirled to look at me, then. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

I looked up at him, the sunlight shining into my swollen, gritty eyes. I didn't fight him.

He was trying to piece together what had just happened. I was right-he had never been rejected before. Not really. He had never known what it was like for someone to say no to him.

"You're young. You haven't been out much. You'll probably realize that it's pretty rare to have someone love you like I love you. It doesn't happen often."

I shrugged. "Maybe. I don't think that's it. I'm not holding out for anything better, Henry. I just don't want you."

I didn't realize how cruel the words would sound until they were out, but there was no taking them back, because they were true, or at least they were almost true.

"Bullshit," he fired back. He was right. At least, he was almost right.

I shrugged again, then took off his jacket, standing to give it back to him. He grabbed it and my hands for a moment, looking at me with what I assumed was desperation.

"Can I do anything to change your mind?"

I smiled at him and let go of the jacket, so that my arms fell to my sides.

"No."

I turned my back and walked back into the house, my decision made.

I found Dr Bertram in the living room with Ned. Ned has his back turned firmly toward the paintings so he wouldn't have to look at them, while Dr Bertram faced them head-on with a kind of feral pride. As such, it was Ned who saw me first, and he straightened up before looking resolutely away from me.

Dr Bertram saw the look on his younger son's face and then caught me from the corner of his eye.

"Ah, the reluctant artist at last."

I nodded politely. "Sir."

"Ned said he couldn't convince you. Is that right?" Ned shot a look of protest at his father, then looked back down at the coffee table, avoiding my eyes.

"Y-yes." I breathed, calm and deep. No one should be a hero.

"I suppose it's useless to tell you how talented you actually are again, or how proud of you I am." I bit my lip. I had always wanted him to say those things to me, and now I wished he would take them back.

"Useless, sir."

"I see. Well. Ned has been trying to impress upon me that we've been sitting around tell you what we want, when we should be asking what you want. I always thought I knew what you wanted, the way I knew what my other children wanted," he flicked his eyes to Ned, then to a spot in the air, clearly thinking about Tom and Mireille and even Julia. "But I suppose in this case I'm incorrect, is that right?" His voice was heavy with doubt and sarcasm.

"I don't want to sell my paintings, sir, that's all."

"And what do you want, then?"

I straightened my spine, taking a deep breath. "I want to go home, sir."

He blinked at me, seven or eight times. Ned was nodding, eyes fixed on the carpet.

Dr Bertram frowned, confused. "You are home. Or do you have a home of which I am unaware?"

"Boston. I want to go home."

"And live where? In a dingy apartment with your uncle, and brother, and sister? Have no future?"

"What kind of future does she have here?" Ned put in, quietly.

"And that's what you want?" Dr Bertram ignored Ned's question completely. "You want to go live in Dorchester and work at a Pizza Express for the rest of your life?"

"No, sir. I want to be an architect." I had never said it out loud before, and now I was, and I couldn't take it back.

Dr Bertram's laugh told me all I needed to know about his opinion on the subject. "An architect."

Ned was watching me now, eyes bright. Now it was me who couldn't look at him.

"Yes, sir. And if that's ever going to happen, I can't live here anymore."

He raised himself to his full height which, in my state, seemed to be about twice my own. He glared down his nose at me. "Then get out. And don't come back. But we're keeping these," he swung his hand back toward the wall of my paintings, "for when you change your mind and realize that in the real world you need money to live on."

"Dad-" Ned stood up.

"That's enough, Edward." His tone brooked no arguments. Ned turned his back.

"I'll call a cab to take you to the airport. I'll pay for your ticket, even give you a little to spend on lunch and such," Dr Bertram opened his wallet, grabbing a handful of bills and holding them out to me as if they were made of rotting meat. "Don't say I never did anything for you, Fawn."

"Flannery," Ned corrected, his back still turned.

Dr Bertram ignored that, too, fixing his eyes on me. "You have an hour to get ready. I never want to see you in this house unless it's to beg my forgiveness and to thank all of us for everything we've done for you. Do you understand me?"

I nodded. He glared down at me.

I took a deep breath. "I understand you, sir. Perfectly."

"Get out of my sight."

It took me ten minutes to pack everything I cared about into an old suitcase someone brought to my bedroom door. I left older clothes, worn-out shoes, books I'd never finished and, regretfully, the ruined pieces of my beautiful ballgown. I tried to spend the rest of the hour cleaning or straightening my room-the room- before I finally slipped Susie's photo into my jacket pocket, and rolled the suitcase out onto the landing, emerging at the top of the staircase to see the whole family arrayed near the front door.

I had never wanted attention, but I had it now. I forced myself to breathe and collapsed the long handles of the suitcase so I could carry it down the staircase with ease. Before I could start down, though, Ned's hand came and took the bag from me, and he walked with me, wordless, down the stairs and out the front door into the cool wetness of mid-November. If the Bertrams or the Crawfords, who were all watching me go, said anything to me, I don't remember it. Ned slammed the taxi trunk shut, then came around to open the door for me. We stood, frozen, undecided, for a moment before I got the courage to look him in the eye.

He searched my gaze miserably, looking for something. Blame, maybe, or forgiveness, I wasn't sure. Slowly, he brought his hands up to cup my face, and placed a kiss in the exact center of my forehead.

I had thought I was out of tears. I had been wrong. They came, then, boiled up over the rims of my eyes and spilled down my cheeks, tracing hot waves down my face. He kissed my cheek, then, too, and held me close to him, as I gripped his waist.

"I'm sorry." Then he broke from me abruptly, holding the door for me to get in. I watched him slam it, then turn around at stride straight back into the house.

He didn't watch me go.


	26. One Thousand Days

The morning of my twenty-first birthday found me sprawled on the kitchen table, drooling on top of my much-abused notebooks. I had pulled the curtains closed the night before, fully aware that I was not going to make it to bed that night, but the sun still peaked through a gap in the beige polyester and had made its way directly into my eyes. Knowing my neck was going to be stiff, I avoided sitting up for as long as I could, but stirred when I heard Susie coming down the hall.

"Morning," I said, stretching over my chair back, my hand on my sore neck.

"Morning, Turbo Nerd," she said grumpily, kicking the fridge door closed and slumping down in a chair across from me, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. Her freckled nose wrinkled as she looked over my homework. "How much fun did you have last night?"

"All of it. All of the fun," I reached out for the orange juice and she let me take it. She was taller than I had been at twelve, and thin as a rail; when she sat on a kitchen chair she tended to fold herself up in it like a blonde, sardonic spider.

"It's cool if I do that, you know," she said, pointing to the bottle of orange juice in my hand, "but aren't you supposed to be, like, an adult now?"

I raised my eyebrows at her, rolling my head from side to side to stretch out my neck. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, nominally."

"Nominally?"

"Like, by definition. By definition I'm an adult, but that might be the only reason you'd call me an adult."

"You're weird."

"Why?"

"No one says stuff like that."

"Like 'nominally?'"

"Yeah."

"Well, I mean, clearly they do."

"No, they don't. You're just a Turbo Nerd," I raised my hands in a gesture of You Got Me. "Liam says you're compensating."

My neck cracked and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm what now?"

"Compensating. You know, like, making up for not going to school by using all these bigs words now. That's what he says you do, sometimes."

I nodded, looking down at my still-damp notebook. Liam and I had agreed not to talk about Mansfield anymore, since it made him angry and me defensive. Clearly, though, he had not felt the need to restrain himself around other people.

"And what do you think?" I asked Susie, watching as she dragged her long hair into a side braid.

"I think I want to take Latin."

That was so unexpected that I laughed. "Latin? Do they teach it at the middle school?"

"Nope. But I want to learn it anyway. And they teach it in high school, so if I started now I could, like, skip a couple levels."

"And why do you want to learn Latin?"

"So I could know what things mean on my own, without you needing to barf up the dictionary at me every time you talk."

I nodded. "Sorry."

"Meh."

"Are you going to eat breakfast?"

"I dunno, maybe some cereal or something."

"Let me make you some eggs." I got up, stretching out my back as I did so. I caught a whiff of my own musk, and decided to take a shower the second Susie left for school.

"You're like, obsessed with eggs, dude. What do you have against General Mills?"

"The General's a nice guy, I'm sure, but I like the idea of a little bit of protein in the morning." I grabbed a frying pan from the nail on the wall and set it to heat as I got bread, butter, and eggs from the fridge and set about the comforting task of making a good breakfast for my baby sister.

I had had to learn how to cook after I came back to Boston. Liam worked nights sometimes, and he wanted to make sure I could at least make pasta for Susie. Back then, she had been a caustic nine-year-old, deeply suspicious of strangers and even less inclined to trust a sister she had never met, especially one who could barely speak to her. I had learned to make eggs, and I had found a therapist through my uncle's health insurance, and when I continued to not abandon her, Susie started to open up. That was the first six months.

Since I had arrived, though, I refused to let Susie eat cereal for breakfast. One morning she had called me a weirdo for preferring she eat leftover pizza to Cheerios, but she had been perfectly happy to comply. I had never told her why, even though she asked. Kids always want to know why—it's only as adults that we lose the compulsion to ask.

I didn't speak much after my arrival, but I had devoted myself to Susie in a way that confused her, accustomed as she had become to independence. Paying attention to her helped keep me from thinking about Mansfield, kept me from watching the phone quite so much, waiting from a call from Ned I knew was never going to come. But where I had not wanted attention, Susie had never needed it. She wasn't angry like Billy or broken like me. Susie was just Susie, and I wanted to soak up that normalcy, bask in it. She didn't know what to make of me, nor what to do with how much I loved her.

So I settled for helping her with her homework. I say "helping," but really I would just sit down next to her as she explained what to do on each math problem, and showed me her work so that I could see how she'd done it. She explained why she answered every question the way she had in Social Studies, and read all of her English papers out loud so we could hear any errors. She showed me all of her science experiments. I would ask her if she was sure her answers were good, or right, or clear, and she would check them herself. I learned more from listening to her than I ever had with Nola.

Soon, though, it was clear that it wasn't enough to sit and listen to Susie and devote myself to helping around the house. Dr Bertram had been right—I needed money to live on, and more than that, I needed to be something better than a kept poor relation. I needed money, and I needed an education.

The next door neighbor, who had been babysitting Susie since she had been brought to Uncle Liam from the hospital, was a high school Humanities teacher, and she'd listened very respectfully while I stuttered out what I wanted.

"Well, Flannery, honey, I think it's a great idea, but you're going to have to work really hard to get your GED in a year. You sure about the time frame? Because we can be flexible about that."

"N-no. I w-want to get it over with." I was getting better at speaking to other people, and I was starting to be comfortable contradicting people.

"Alright, honey pie. Let me pick up a couple of test prep books from the guidance office at my school. Why don't you take a couple of book lists from me, too, and start thinking about what you want to read first?"

It was slow going, and it was painstaking. I listened to white noise while I read to keep my brain from going off on daydreaming tangents that always ended the same way, with me in a taxi, watching Ned walk away. White noise helped. Having a project helped.

And I got better. I got better at reading, and at understanding what it was that I'd read. I got better at paying attention and listening, and I got better at not thinking about the past.

Never having read many books on my own, I had never imagined all the kinds of things people wrote about. I read books about kids who had been abused or thrown into orphanages, and my own problems didn't seem so bad. I read books about wars, and people sitting around in parlors talking shit about each other, and I read books about witches and wizards at war and I learned I wasn't such a freak. And I read books about things that had happened, cars people had built, real crimes people had investigated, and real Presidents, and I didn't feel so stupid anymore. I still wanted to get my GED, but the things I studied became less focused on that goal, and more general. I wanted to read a book, so I did. I wanted to watch the news, so I did. I wanted to sketch building after building, so I did. I did what I wanted. I did what interested me.

When I got my GED, I immediately starting looking at college. By that point, I was speaking comfortably with people I didn't know, even if I was still a woman of few words. Susie was starting to sprout up like a weed, and Uncle Liam watched us grow with his trademark quirk of the mouth and good-humored shrug of the shoulder. I looked at public programs, and found one not too far away, in architecture, the way I'd wanted. I started the year I turned twenty, sitting in the back, quietly in awe of the other students in the classes, who clearly knew how to be students at this point, and who were not as excited as me to be sitting in a half-empty auditorium, watching slideshows of famous buildings.

I was in a summer course now, methods of building new structures in classic styles, which was significantly more challenging than I'd thought it would be. If I wanted to see the sun that day, I would need to go for a walk or something right after my shower—I wouldn't get another chance.

The toast popped, and I flipped the eggs onto the slices, one for me, one for Susie. She was gulping down orange juice as I handed her the plate, and she made a wordless noise in thanks.

"Hey, do you mind if I go see Billy after camp instead of coming straight home?" She asked after she swallowed.

Billy lived in Southie with a couple of his friends, managing a successful bar and grille whenever he wasn't at training.

"Isn't he working tonight?"

"Nah, he has the night off tonight. And since you have to study, I was thinking…" she trailed off suggestively. My stomach dropped a little at the thought of my spending my birthday alone, of it going unnoticed again. Uncle Liam and Billy had made such a big deal of it the past few years, to make up for Ned's silence, but I didn't expect them to remember every year, not when they had things of their own going on.

And Susie was only twelve. It wasn't fair to keep her here to watch me do homework just because I didn't want to be alone on my birthday.

"Sure thing. But do you want to go to breakfast or something tomorrow? I think I'll need a break by then."

"Yah, dude. As long as I can get a full stack of pancakes this time."

"You get whatever that little heart desires."

"This is why you're my favorite. Billy's all about moderation."

"Well, so am I. In moderation."

She grinned, wiping the rest of the egg yolk with the corner of her toast, and stuffing it in her mouth before jumping up to deposit her plate in the sink and grab her backpack from next to the door.

"Catch you later, nerd!" The door slammed behind her, making the old dog across the street wake up and bark a few times as if angry at being caught off guard.

I finished my toast in silence and cleaned up, trying to gear myself up for what was likely to be a long, boring, and lonely day. I didn't have many of those anymore.

If I were being honest with myself, there were things I missed about Mansfield. If I were being brutally honest, I missed most things about Mansfield Park.

At Mansfield, things were so well organized that nothing happened that was outside of the plan. At Mansfield, there were no unpleasant surprises at all, not in terms of scheduled events or in terms of bank accounts. We had almost never talked about money there. I had never heard anyone say anything about "budgets" there. Nothing was ever impossible, nothing was unattainable.

At Mansfield, the only people who were invited over were people who were Like Us. There was never the risk that your dinner guest would say embarrassing things and make everyone uncomfortable. There were no surprise visitors, and fathers and mothers were still together and still behaved the way they were supposed to, and didn't knock on your door drunkenly on Christmas Eve.

At Mansfield, you had days off. All of your days could be days off, and you could go camping on the grounds if you wanted to. You could have a conversation with someone in the kitchen late at night and not wake everyone up. You could go whole months without seeing your neighbors. You never had to go shopping on your own, much less in a hurry.

I missed Mansfield in ways that were often silly. I had never liked being isolated, but I sometimes longed for that isolation. I had craved love and affection, but sometimes wished my Uncle would love me less, so he would pay less attention to me. I missed my lack of accountability to anyone. At home with my real family, I had to live up to expectations. No one had expected much from me at Mansfield, and I was nostalgic for that way of life, no matter how much those low expectations had hurt me in the past.

But more than anything, I missed Edward Nicholas Bertram. Ned, who had wanted me to be free of the whole Bertram family, had never called me, had never written me, and never even sent a card for my birthday. I still felt him next to me, though, sitting not too close and not too far. I felt his hand on my shoulder, and his low, comforting voice in my ear. I had whole conversations with him, sometimes, where I told him all about my life, told him all about my dreams, all about my family. The conversations always ended once I asked him about himself. Of him I knew nothing, not even if he and Mary were still together, not even if he had been ordained yet. I longed for that update, and dreaded it, and despaired of it. I would never hear from him again. It was probably for the best.

That didn't stop my heart from breaking, just a little bit, every week that went by without his calling me. It didn't stop me imagining running into him quite by accident, and forcing him to talk to me, to realize that he missed his friend as much as I missed mine. I hoped he missed me. The alternatives were too painful to think about.

There had been a boy in my freshman seminar who had sat next to me every class, even when there were empty seats all around us. We didn't speak much, but we had kissed at a party later in the semester. There had been a guy, a couple years older than me, who had helped me pick up my books when I'd dropped them and then asked for my number. He hadn't been deterred when I'd told him I didn't have a cell phone, and asked me out to dinner that weekend, anyway. Then there had been a man I thought was cute in my class the semester before who had smiled back at me when I introduced myself and laughed at my terrible jokes. We'd dated for a couple months until the end of the school year, when he'd moved back to California. It was possible to live without Ned, to be attracted to other people, and attractive to other people.

I didn't think I was in love with Ned anymore, but I did miss him. That longing became a part of me, a part of the fabric of me until I didn't even need to examine it to know its state, to feel its edges, so smooth one day and so rough the next. Missing him was like having a right elbow, like catching my breath after climbing up stairs. I missed him, and, in some ways, missed the person I'd been when I'd been in love with him. It had been simpler, then, when he was my only dream. I had lived a simpler life, even if it was a life that was deeply unfair to both of us.

No one should be a hero.

Three years is a long time. By calendar, it made me only a thousand days older, but those days and the distance and my determination to be different made Fawn seem like a dream I'd had sometimes. Other times she was sitting right next to me, watching me in fascination as I spoke to strangers. Other times she was in my throat. Sometimes, just sometimes, I would still be her, and I would be rocked by that possession for the rest of the week. I hated her and loved her like she was a sister, and had nightmares about being her from which I would wake up crying with longing. Uncle Liam would take one look at my pinched face and dark circles and would send me out on some kind of errand with Susie or with himself, getting me out of the house and out of my head. By the time of my twenty-first birthday, Fawn only came to perch on my shoulder every now and then, staring in confusion at the pile of homework I had to do.

My birthdays always brought her back, though.

* * *

><p>When the phone rang, it was early afternoon and the growling in my stomach made me contemplate an immediate lunch of some kind. I hadn't made as much progress as I'd wanted to in my reading, which I attributed to my law night and the quiet of the house. I toyed with the idea of heading out and going to the library, but knew I wouldn't be much more productive there, either. The bleating of the phone broke into my reverie, and I hauled myself to my feet to answer it by the third ring.<p>

"Price residence, Flannery speaking."

"Holy shit, it's you." The voice was familiar, but it took me a second to place it, and in that time Mary added, clearly laughing, "It's Mary, Fawn. Wow, first try and I knock it out of the park. How are you?"

"Uh…" I gave myself a little shake to reset my system. "Uh, I'm fine. Thank you. And yourself?"

"That's it? Just 'fine'? God, and you're talking now. Jeez, time flies, right? But seriously, tell me how you're doing."

This was a dream of some kind. I was hungry and hallucinating. "I'm doing well. Studying for a class right now. Was about to make lunch."

"Holy moly. Taking classes, too. That's so…congratulations, Fawn."

"Flannery."

"What?"

"Flannery. My name's Flannery. How did you get this number?"

"Oh, Ned had it in his address book," she said breezily, and I could just picture her flapping her hand casually, "it was pretty simple. I don't think he knows a lot of Prices, do you?"

"Mary."

"Yeah?"

"Why are you calling?" The question, far more abrupt than I ever would have dreamed of being before, brought her up short.

"What?"

"I mean, is this just a social call, or do you have a real reason to call me right now?"

"Oh. Down to the point, huh? Well, okay. Um, so I have a favor to ask you. Happy birthday, by the way."

"Oh, uh—"

"Ned told me that, too. I mean it was on his calendar. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd mind doing something for me."

"What is it?"

"Would you mind calling Ned for me?"

I blinked, and though it was impossible for her to have heard it over the phone, my reaction must have registered, because she pressed on, "Oh, come on, it's not like you two hate each other or anything. This weird pining thing has gone on for a little too long, if you ask me. And I wouldn't even ask you two to stop being noble freaking idiots, but I seriously need your help, so. Ned's in New York right now, as part of his student ministry, and he hasn't returned any of my phone calls this past week. We had this big fight, you know, again, and he's just gone radio silent and I'm a patient woman but there's only so much I can take of this back and forth stuff. I need a go-between. I'd really appreciate your help on this, Fawn," she skidded to a stop.

She sounded different. Desperate, somehow, not the smooth, unflappable woman I'd remembered. Maybe it was just desperate times. Maybe I'd remembered her wrong. But I felt a wave of temptation run through me. I could call Ned. I could talk to him. I could talk to him today.

To tell him what, though? That he should call his girlfriend? And nothing else, presumably, if Mary's jabs about Ned and my pining for each other were anything to go on. If I was a messenger in this, then Mary really was desperate, and I was her last resort.

Happy birthday to me.

"Mary, I don't think that's a good idea." My voice was hoarse. I cleared my throat as unobtrusively as possible.

"Why? Because you're still in a fight?" Her patience was straining.

"Well, yes, there's that. But also because your relationship is none of my business. If you want to talk to him, you should talk to him. I'm sorry," I wasn't, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.

"Whatever." She hung up, and I stared at the receiver in amazement. My old life, which had been so far away twenty minutes ago, was close enough to breathe on me now. I needed to sit down.

Ned. His life suddenly had shape. He was in New York, and ending his student ministry, and he and Mary were still together, but they were fighting. He had my birthday on his calendar. I couldn't think about that too much. I wasn't going to call him. I was _not_ going to call him, but it made me feel better to know something about his life. He was still alive, and still doing what he dreamed of doing. It made me feel better to know that, for some reason.

And what was Mary doing calling me? I had been right—it was none of my business—but the curiosity was getting the better of me. Why was she so eager to bring me back into Ned's life?

What was going on?

My stomach rumbled. I grabbed a hunk of cheese and a piece of bread and ate it as I grabbed my shoes and laced them. I needed to get out of the house and do something, or I would obsess about this for the rest of the day.

I met Liam coming up the stairs on the way out. He smiled at me, raised his left hand for a high five, and swooped a quick kiss on my cheek.

"Happy birthday, baby girl. Here, this came for you," he handed me a bright square envelope with my name and address written in unfamiliar handwriting.

"You okay?" He looked at my face, his grizzled brow knit in concern.

"Yeah, just need a break. Long day," I shrugged, attempting nonchalance. He made a non-committal sound, opening the screen door and standing propping it with his hip as he pushed the front door open.

"Just be home by eight tonight, okay? And get ready to look surprised."

"What?"

"Billy and Susie and I forgot your birthday, so you're not going to believe your eyes when they throw a party for you tonight in your own home. Got me?"

I laughed, relief surging through me. "Gotcha." I turned away before he could see the tears that had welled in my eyes. "See you then!"

Why had I wanted to call Ned, exactly? What had been so great about my old life that I wanted to feel it again?

The card's edges were sharp against my palm. I ripped it open along the top edge and pulled out the card, a jaunty cartoon of a cat with a pink sparkly tiara, and the words MEOWPPY BIRTHDAY in big glittery letters.

On the inside, in bold block letters, was "I still love you, you know. Henry."

I crumpled up the card, throwing it in the closest recycle bin as I picked up speed, slamming my feet on the pavement.

Twice in one day. Those weren't odds. That was calculation.


	27. A True Story

After the cake, my sister turned to my uncle and said, "Tell us a story."

Uncle Liam was a storyteller, but most days he refused to indulge Susie's voracious appetite. She always asked for a story on her birthday; I'd never thought to ask for one on mine.

Liam glanced at me from his seat in his armchair, his big feet propped up on the coffee table. There was a hole in the toe in one of his socks. It was late—the sun was down. Susie was curled up on the couch, her feet in Billy's lap. I balanced my plate, perched on the arm of an empty chair.

"A true story, or a tale?" Liam's voice was quiet.

I nodded at Susie, letting her choose. Her eyes lit up. "A true story. Tell us something true."

I smiled, "As true as you can make it." Liam nodded his head thoughtfully. The silence stretched out. Billy lay his head back on the couch, pretending to be asleep. Nobody moved.

"When you were born," Liam said, turning his eyes on me, "it was during one of the largest thunderstorms I'd ever seen. I've been to the Caribbean, and I've seen some storms out West, too, but I'd never seen anything like this one. Mid summer, hot as hell, wind high. I got to the hospital later than I wanted to. Had to drive around trees on the road. Almost got my windshield smashed by a branch or two."

Susie snuggled further down into her seat. Billy sat perfectly still. If he was breathing, I couldn't tell.

"It was raining so hard that the water flooded into the parking garage. My shoes were soaked to the ankles when I made it upstairs to find your brother sitting perfectly still in the waiting room, eyes wide open. Unblinking. Just, focused. Your dad was a mess next to him. Twitching, dozing off, jumping up and pacing. But Billy jus sat there and waited patiently. Three years old. The nurses had never seen anything like it.

"When you were born you screamed so loud and so strong that we thought something was wrong. We thought you were hurt, or in danger. So we piled into the room, your dad and me and this quiet, cool three-year-old Billy right behind us, and there you are shrieking and screaming and letting us all know you were born, this storm inside a hurricane."

I nodded, my eyes trained on the floor.

"I've lived longer than you three. Seen lots. Done lots. Some people probably have better track records for happiness, or at least not making bullshit mistakes their whole lives. But in _my_ life, there have only been three perfect days. The day you were born, Flannery, that was one of them."

A small silence punctuated his last sentence. Billy let out a breath. I nodded again, not looking up.

Susie wriggled unhappily. "Tell another one?"

Liam smiled, standing up. "I'm all storied out now, honey pie. Maybe some other time." He took his plate into the kitchen, came out to kiss each of us on the forehead, and headed off to bed. None of us moved.

After Liam had closed the door, Susie said, "He never talks about Mom."

Neither Billy nor I answered.

"I mean, he went through a whole story about you being born and he never mentioned her. Not even once. It's not like you gave birth to yourself."

"Suze," Billy's voice was exhausted, "you need to let that go."

"Out of all of us here, I'd say I have the least I need to let go. You're all so, like, bitter, you can't even mention her damn name. Or talk like she existed, even."

I watched Susie's face, now bright with anger. We had never talked about this before, and suddenly I realized that it was something Susie and Billy had discussed many times before. Without me.

"There's a reason for that. You know what it is."

"She's an alcoholic, big deal. It's not like you and Liam don't drink. I don't see either one of you like, losing custody of me or whatever."

"You also don't see Mom trying to turn her life around."

"I don't see Mom at all!"

"You know why that is? Because she doesn't want to see us, that's why. Who even knows where she is." Billy's tone was just a shade shy of bitter. His eyes were still closed, his head was still back against the couch.

"Probably because you and Liam are such dicks to her." Susie said acidly. "Who'd want to hang around someone who judged them all the time?"

I caught my breath, quietly, but Susie heard it and turned to look at me. Her face, so hard with righteous indignation, barely changed. But there was a flicker of something across her face, and I wondered, not for the first time, what my face looked like to others.

"All three of you walk around like you survived something and you don't tell me anything," Susie stood up, straightening out her pajama pants. "I'm just supposed to never talk about things that make you uncomfortable, which by the way is a super long list." She picked up her plate and strode into the kitchen, then slammed the door to our room.

Billy held out his arms to me and I sat down with him, wrapped into as small a bundle as I could manage in the heat. We sat there a long time, not speaking. Then he kissed me on the forehead, in exactly the same spot that Uncle Liam had, and said, "Happy birthday, baby sister."

Tears escaped my eyes in spite of myself. All was quiet.

"She really doesn't know about Mom?" my voice was a whisper.

Billy whispered back, "She does. She just doesn't understand what it means." His hand came up to cup my head, and he rocked me back and forth, humming low in his chest. All around us the house breathed a small sigh, a release, as my brother and I sat together, unspeaking, unmoving.

All was quiet, and in spite of everything my life was beautiful.

* * *

><p>I thought I'd never get used to summer in the city. At Mansfield there had been shade from the sun, a chance of a breeze, the promise of dipping my feet in the river. Here there was no escape but inside shops that were so full of people who were so angry with the weather that the escape was no escape at all. I still avoided crowds.<p>

On a good day, the trip from Bunker Hill to Dorchester Center takes forty minutes. That day had not been a good day, and the bottom of my feet and the top of my head felt baked and tough. I dug out my water bottle for the fifth time since getting off the bus and guzzled down the last of the now-lukewarm water inside. I reached down to stuff the bottle back into my bag when a figure on the sidewalk caught my attention.

The sunlight that beat down on my head turned his hair into a thousand different colors, and his skin, freckled like mine, had taken on a pleasant, sun-kissed look. Three years had been kind to Henry Crawford—he looked taller, broader, better. Or maybe I'd turned him into something he hadn't been, whenever I thought about him.

He'd caught me out of the corner of his eye and now he was turned toward me, his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to approach. He was in front of my door. He'd sent me a card, too. How had he gotten my address? Had that, too, come from Ned's address book? Did Ned know Mary helped herself to his information?

I came within three paces of Henry and stopped, hands gripping my bulging bag. It was boiling hot, I was developing a rough sunburn, and I was in desperate need of a bathroom, but I had no interest in getting closer to him. Being close to him had proved dangerous in the past.

"Miss Price," he spoke as if he'd only seen me earlier that day. "Always a pleasure." He sketched a little half-bow, clearly amusing himself.

I squinted at him for a moment, considering. He looked much more adult—his face was still boyishly handsome, but there was something about him that was different. I wasn't quite sure yet what that something was.

I nodded at him. "Henry."

He smiled at me silently, his eyes on my face. He didn't say anything.

I did. "What are you doing here?"

He grinned, rocking back on his heels a little, bringing his hand to rub the back of his neck. Oh, yes, I could see it. I could see it immediately, what I hadn't understood before. He radiated confidence, the kind of self-deprecating confidence that was immediately recognizable as sex appeal. I would never have understood that as an eighteen-year-old.

"Well," he said, giving an appealing shrug of the shoulders, "I'm a few days late for your birthday, but I figured a visit wouldn't go amiss. Not when you're twenty-one. Plus I wanted to make sure you got my card."

"I did."

"Oh, good. Good. That old postal service is still going strong." He was watching me like I amused him. I was doing my best to be as boring as possible.

I watched him as he watched me. The smile never left his face, no matter how long we watched each other.

"Are you going to invite me in, or are you intending to melt to death in front of me?" He seemed cool enough, minus a bit of sweat on his forehead. I was made of sweat. I was a sweat monster.

"Why are you really here, Henry?"

"So you didn't get my card, then."

I sighed, at a loss. It was too hot to think at all, let alone clearly.

"I need to go inside." He watched me. I shook my head. "You might as well come in, too. Since you're here."

He nodded to me with utmost seriousness. "You honor me with your excitement."

I fought hard against another sigh, fumbling with my keys as I struggled to open the sticky front door. I was conscious, very conscious, of his presence behind me. Maybe three years weren't enough to make my body forget about him. Maybe it was simply that he still bothered me. Maybe I was just annoyed.

I dropped my bag on the bench just inside the door, opting to keep my shoes on. Something about talking to Henry barefoot made me nervous; I didn't want him to think I was comfortable with him being there.

I pointed at the table, still strewn with my books. "Sit down."

He pulled out a chair and relaxed into it, looking around the room. I shifted, uncomfortable. I'd never felt ashamed of my home before, but in the face of Henry's appraisal I was immediately aware of the dust, my socks on the floor, Billy's beer bottle from the other night on the coffee table. Cracks in the wall. The smell of bacon, slightly burnt, from this morning. Mansfield had never shown any such signs of life. The Grants' house had always been spotless. Here was different, and for a sweeping moment, it was shameful.

But no. This was my home, and I loved it, and he was invading. I shook my head as I went to the fridge for the water pitcher, more annoyed than I had been before. If he was going to pretend that he was in love with me, he was going to get the full picture of what that meant. Maybe polyester curtains and thrift store paintings would scare him off the way I hadn't been able to.

"Water?"

"Please. It's hot as hell outside." I handed him a glass, careful not to touch him, then turned to put the water back in the fridge. "Not in here, though," he continued, that smile still in his voice, "it's nice and cold in here."

This time I did sigh, turning my head to look at him. "I thought I'd given you my answer."

He tapped his fingers against the condensation, watching silently as drops fell on the old carpet. "You did," he said finally. "And believe me, I heard you. I just...well. Things changed for me. Not that, though." He raised his eyes to me. "I didn't want to bother you. You know, in your new life. I just needed to tell you. That's all." He cleared his throat, then lifted the glass to his lips, drinking half of the glass in one go.

I watched him, frowning. His face was still strange to me, as was his voice. He could have been a completely different person from the man I'd known three years ago, if I hadn't talked to him outside my house. That Henry had been the same old Henry. This one, this nervous one in the kitchen, speaking in short sentences with no trace of sarcasm, this was an entirely different Henry Crawford.

Perhaps.

"Henry, you haven't seen me or talked to me in three years."

"I know. So?"

"So how can you know you're in love with me?"

"Because I know."

"That's," I ran my left hand over my face, "that's not an answer."

"I don't know, I think it's pretty good," he sounded mulish, like a stubborn child.

"Henry…"

"I don't know, Flannery, okay? I mean, how does anyone know anything? Either you remember learning it or you just know it. Okay?"

My eyebrows shot up. "You called me Flannery." I couldn't keep the shock out of my voice.

"You called me Henry," now a ghost of his saucy grin was back.

"That's your name," I turned away to put my glass in the sink, itching with frustration at my own weakness. Why couldn't I have just thrown him out on his ear? Why hadn't I told him to leave in the first place?

"I know that. I wasn't aware you did. As for the Flannery thing, well, I didn't even know that was your real name until Ned told me. I thought Fawn was your real name that whole time. I wouldn't have called you Fawn if I'd known the truth." There was a mild reproach in his voice, but turned away from him I had no idea if that reproach was meant for me.

"I think we can both agree that the circumstances we met under were pretty messed up, right? I mean, old family manse in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the summer? No one around, no rules, no adults, no information about each other? You just eighteen? There's a lot about that time that I still get shocked about now. Like, who the hell were we? What kind of fairytale did we think we were in? You know what I mean?"

I was staring at him now, open-mouthed. I had always assumed Henry had been perfectly comfortable in Mansfield. Not having lived with any other wealthy family, I had assumed that all educated, sophisticated people did the same things the Bertrams did.

Moreover, I had never expected Henry to be the voice of reason.

"And on top of it all, I spring this huge confession on you," he was shaking his head now, staring down at the glass in his hand. One foot was bouncing up and down to a slow, steady rhythm. "We barely knew each other then."

"We barely know each other now."

"True," he saluted me with a tip of his head and the rim of his glass. "Yes. But I feel like I understand you better. Understand where you were coming from. Where you come from in general, come to that. And the more I've been out in the world, like, doing things, seeing things, working with people, the more I've thought about you. Where you were. What you were doing. What you'd say if you could see me. What you would do if you were in my shoes. So I may not have a lot of clock hours with you personally, Flannery Price, but you have this way of sticking with a guy."

" 'Out in the world?'"

"I started working with groups that coordinate educational support for schools and after school programs. Started working with teachers and administrators, trying to help them help the kids. Did some volunteer hours over at some youth groups. This is all in New York," he clarified. "But it's all real. Probably wouldn't have done it if it weren't for you. I would have been too obsessed with, like, glamour, or whatever. And all that change, that's on you. In a good way, I promise."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"What?" He seemed offended.

"Look, I'm sorry, it's just…I mean, the Henry Crawford I know would never say something like that without there being some kind of end game."

"Granted," his half-smile didn't manage to shake off his beleaguered expression, "but people change. You've definitely changed. Why not me, too?"

I had no answer to that, and anything I would have put into words would have been unfair. I had seen him act once. Not just once, as it turned out, but several times, and he had been excellent at it. But without any proof, how could I accuse him of acting again? He was right: change was more than possible. How could I insist that it was possible for me while denying him the chance to prove himself changed?

What the hell was I doing?

"Look, I'm not asking you to marry me tomorrow. I'm just asking for the chance to get to know you again, and for you to get to know me, away from my sister, away from Ned, away from Mansfield and all that bullshit. I want to know you. Hopefully you getting to know me will be enough to recommend me." He stood up and placed his glass in the sink. "I'll see myself out."

As he opened the front door, a beam of light fell on a stain on the carpet. The hinges of the screen door screeched. The faucet dripped in a steady _batbatbat_, and I found myself counting the number of seconds between breaths. Something was wrong, and whether it was me or it was him or it was the house, I had no idea.


	28. Close

I was finding it difficult to concentrate. My books lay in my accustomed pile on the table, open to the same pages they had been the night before. I had made only a small amount of progress on my paper, choosing to edit what I already had over drafting the remaining ten pages. I hadn't touched my references. I found myself pausing between words, between sentences, or paragraphs, or pages, and jumping up to walk around the common space, or stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, such as it was. The sun was high and it was hot as hell. I couldn't get comfortable.

Was it Henry? Was it that he was back in my life? Certainly, he'd been a distraction before, for all that it had been unwelcome. Or was it the sudden reemergence of my Mansfield life, the one I thought was over forever? Did he expect me to be Fawn? What did I expect from myself? With the exception of Billy's visit to Mansfield, my two worlds had never collided before. I ran my hand through my hair, exasperated and sweaty.

"You look like you're in a pickle." I turned, surprised, only to come face to face with my father. He was standing on the sidewalk slightly behind me, exactly where I had stopped to talk to Henry Crawford the day before. I hadn't heard him arrive; either he was getting better at being quiet, or I had been more distracted than I had realized.

I blinked, then twice, then three times. He looked up at me with a bit of a hangdog expression in his eyes. Last Christmas was probably still on his mind, the way it was on mine.

"Hey, baby." He smiled a bit, showing his missing tooth. I looked away for a moment, trying to regroup. This was a week for surprises.

"Liam's not home." I regretted it the second I'd said it. I should have said that Liam was here with all of his co-workers and their brothers. I should have told them that the entire US Army was stationed here. Not that I really needed protection. Not really.

"That's cool. I won't ask you to let me in or nothin'," I tried not to flinch. Things that other people said all the time made me cringe when they came out of his mouth. "I just wanted to see you. Say hey. Stop by every once and a while." He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and smacked it to release one. He lit it and took a pull, eyes flicking from me to the ground and back.

I watched him. He twitched a little more.

"So, uh, happy birthday. That's today, right?"

I watched him. He shuffled his feet.

"What is it, twenty-one now, right?"

I watched him. He narrowed his eyes.

"Come on, baby. I'm trying. You gotta meet me halfway."

I shrugged. I watched his face contort with anger, and I watched him as he wrestled that anger back down. I was impressed; he wouldn't be throwing a bottle at me today.

"I've been going to meetings," he said, looking up at me. "Sober two months now." He pulled a chip out of his pocket, showing it to me. "They don't make a two month chip, but they did give me the one month the last time. You're gonna hafta trust me on the other month." He said it like it was a joke.

"That's good."

"Oh, so you're talking to me, now?"

I shut my mouth, turning my head away.

"Sorry. Sorry about that. Sometimes my mouth, you know, it just…you know."

"Why are you here?" The heat was becoming unbearable. It had been days since I'd felt a breeze.

He sighed around his cigarette, running his hand along the back of his head. Billy would have hated to see him do that. He was always self-conscious with his hands for a week after Will Price made an appearance. "Just wanted to give a neighborly hello, is all." I could hear Uncle Liam in his tone.

I watched him silently as his eyes flicked up to meet mine, then away, then back, then down to the ground. He shrugged.

"So, yeah, well. Happy birthday," he turned to leave. I let him go, watching as he loped along, his shoulders in their accustomed hunch, his arms swinging low and fast at his sides. There was a hole in one of the shoulders of his shirt. It may have been the same shirt he had worn the last time I'd seen him. The same shirt, the same man. Or maybe not. Maybe he had been different, or on his way to being different. He had looked me in the eye, at least. He had remembered my birthday.

Susie would have been furious with me, would have told me at the top of her voice that I should have offered him some water, at least. He'd come all this way and I hadn't even let him use the bathroom. Hadn't even called him Dad. It was what he wanted. It was so easy to give. And maybe I should have given that inch. He hadn't been drunk, hadn't been too rude. I could have given him that much, at least. Who knows where it was he'd woken up that morning, but he'd made the trip. I could give him a glass of water.

But I already had a father, and I had run out of mercy.

* * *

><p>Henry Crawford made good on his promise to befriend me. For the next week, he offered me rides to and from campus every day, and didn't seem upset when I declined most of his offers. He bought me coffee once, and shrugged his shoulders when I told him I didn't drink coffee. He drank it himself, joking that he'd only gotten himself a small because he hadn't wanted to give the impression that he had a caffeine problem.<p>

One afternoon I caved, however—my bag was heavy on my back and I was exhausted. I didn't think I had it in me to take the T all the way home. Not today. It was about two weeks after my birthday, and the summer semester was almost over. My backpack was stuck to my back with sweat, but Henry looked cool and comfortable in his crisp white shirt and light shorts. At Mansfield, that was how I'd thought everyone dressed. Only recently had I learned that Henry's wardrobe marked him as a certain kind of person. I wondered, not for the first time, if Tom had different wardrobes, one for Mansfield and one for everyone else. At Mansfield he always made and effort, but was there a place where he was sweaty and disheveled, like me?

Henry stood in front of me, swinging his car keys around one finger.

"Are you serious?"

I sighed, shifting my bag on my shoulders. "Is your offer off the table?"

"Which one? I've made you so many, you see," he grinned like a little boy.

I sighed again. The night before had been a late one as well; I didn't have any banter in me.

Henry took a step forward and put his hands on my shoulders. "Of course you can have a ride home. It would bring me the greatest of pleasures, Flannery Price." He walked me to his car, holding the door open for me as if I were a queen. "For the record," he said, climbing in on his side, "exactly none of my offers are off the table," he caught my eye and winked. "But that's neither here nor there."

I fought the urge to laugh and lost, and he shot me a smile so pure I almost stared at him. I turned away instead, intent on inspecting the road signs.

"You know your way around Boston pretty well," I said, watching as Henry switched into the correct lane with general ease.

I heard him chuckle as he made a turn. "Yeah, well. I know what's what."

"Oh, really?" I couldn't keep the amusement out of my voice.

"Oh, I'm pretty much at center of all goings on in these parts. Directions, birthdays, gossip…" he trailed off.

I waited.

"Gossip…" he said again, trying to bait me.

I waited, shooting him a sidelong glance.

He shook his head. "You're seriously not going to ask me about the gossip thing, are you?"

I shrugged. "You want to tell me. I can wait."

"Ugh. Trying so hard to be cool, and I end up looking needy. Not fair."

I shrugged again. He chuckled, tapping on the steering wheel with his fingers. "Okay. So. Gossip. Ready?"

"Ready."

"Okay. So. Mary, Ned? Doneski."

I turned my eyes full on his face. "What?"

"Yep. He pulled the plug like, a month ago. Huge fights, names called. He said he was done. So that's over."

I thought about Mary calling me on my birthday. It made slightly more sense in that context. But over? Done? Completely? And Ned had been the one to end things?

I thought about the way he had looked at her. The sun had risen and set with Mary Crawford at one point. And now she was calling me, desperate for my help.

"Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack, my friend. As a heart attack. They did some back and forth stuff for a while, then got back together, then split up, looks like for good. Crazy. Apparently she never really came around to the whole minister thing, and he never came around to her wanting to be rich thing. Though I'd like to see him be actually poor. That might shock him. But yeah, they're done. Totally done."

There was a silence as I watched him. He looked relaxed, piloting his sports car down barely-marked streets, his cherubic eyes flicking from one point to another with the calm of a practiced driver. It took a lot of practice to stay calm when driving on these streets. I'd never be able to manage it, not even now.

"You're lying to me." I said it with no venom, but I said it nonetheless.

He was silent, and two turns later he pulled over into an available parking lot. He turned the car off and then turned to face me.

"Yeah."

I shook my head. "Why would you lie about that?"

He met my eyes for a tense moment, then looked down at his thumb, which beat a silent rhythm on the stick shift.

"I wanted to see how you'd take the news. If it happened, that is."

Now I felt the anger rising in me. "How I would take it."

"Yes."

"The news of Ned and Mary breaking up."

"Yes."

"The possibility of the news of Ned and Mary breaking up."

"Yes."

"And did I pass your test? Whatever it was you were actually testing for?"

"Oh, you passed it, alright." He sounded bitter. I watched him, frowning in what felt like a thunderous way. He looked up at me, then down, then up again, and laughed.

"So you're over Ned, and you still won't give me a chance."

My eyebrows shot up so far they must have disappeared into my hair. "Excuse me?"

"This whole time I've been wondering, see, since I knew you were in love with Ned back then, and I knew that was the thing that was stopping you from being with me."

"Wha—"

"—So I wondered this time around, too. Is she being so stubborn because she wants to be with someone else still? Like, is there anyone else? That would explain a lot. But there's no one else," he looked at me calmly for a moment. "There's no one else, right? I'm right about that, aren't I? But you're still giving me the brush off."

"Henry," I put my head in my hands, longing to be home, longing to be in my own bed. "Are you trying to tell me that you're upset that I'm not in love with someone else?"

"So you admit that you were in love with him."

"And you're also telling me that when you said you'd be cool with just getting to know me again, what you were really saying is that we needed to jump into bed with each other at our earliest convenience—"

"That's not—"

"—And that because I'm not in love with someone else, or with someone else, that means that I should have jumped your bones a long time ago?"

" 'Jumped my bones'? Who says shit like that anymore?"

"I'm not giving you the brush off, Henry."

He glared at me, watching my face. I wondered what my face looked like when I was lying and when I was telling the truth. Could a person tell, just by looking at me, the way I'd been able to with Henry? Or had all those years of silence wiped it clean?

"You're not?" His voice seemed calmer.

"I took you up on your ride. I talked to you. I wouldn't have done that if I wanted nothing to do with you."

We sat in silence, considering each other.

"So…" he started.

"So you should have kept to your word. Let me get to know you. I want to be your friend, Henry. I've never been against being your friend. But this stuff? This whole romantic thing isn't going to happen. You should know that by now."

I had a habit, when it came to Henry Crawford, of making the truth seem overly harsh. I watched it as it hit him, and I watched him ingest it. I felt it burn when I swallowed.

"Wow, you really haven't changed." His tone was like a slap in the face. I fought to keep my voice under control.

"We both know I have. I just didn't change into someone who liked you more."

He drove me home. I sat in my corner of the car, as far away from him as possible. I wondered if he, too, like me, cursed every red light and every bit of traffic. It was by far the worst car ride I had ever been on before, and have ever been on since.

When he pulled up outside my house, I know he expected me to hop right out and run inside. A part of me did want to do just that. Instead, I turned to look at him, my hand on the knob.

"I hope you didn't do all those good things in New York just for me. I'm glad you did them. I just want you to do them for yourself."

"Cool. Whatever." He was a thousand miles away.

Then I did bolt out of the car and run into my house. The lights were off and I let them stay that way, curling up on the couch, clutching a pillow.

When my heart had stopped pounding and my head had stopped spinning, I fell asleep, and when I slept I dreamed of Mansfield, only Mansfield was a kingdom trapped behind rose bushes, and I had to decide whether to hack my way into it with my broadsword or use magic to open a door, and when I woke up, I was still undecided.


	29. Shine Bright, Shine Far

At eight o'clock sharp, the phone rang again, bursting me out of sleep. I started, knocking my book to the floor, and turned my head just in time to see Susie grab the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yes, this is the Price residence."

"Uh, yeah, she's—wait, you're not named Henry, by any chance, are you?"

"Oh, good. Then yeah, she's here. Do you want to talk to her?"

"I mean, I guessed that you wanted to talk to her, but I thought I'd make sure."

"Cool. Hold on. Flan, it's for you."

I hauled my body off the couch and hobbled over to the phone, mouthing "Who is it?" to my sister before taking the phone away from her. She shrugged, then mouthed "Mrs Bertram?" just in time for me to put the phone to my ear.

I took a deep breath.

"Hello?"

* * *

><p>The last time I had been to a hospital had been right before I was sent off to Mansfield. Edwina had taken me—I was a ward of the state at that point—and a doctor had examined me. He had had greying hair and glasses, and had tried to get me to smile, but the years and my anxiety had erased everything else. Besides, I'd been too nervous to look at him directly.<p>

Mass General is a grander building than you might expect. The older part of it is vaguely reminiscent of the White House, with its doric column and its stone steps. The newer wing looks like something from Metropolis, all deco glasswork with large gradations, like a giant's staircase, cut into the side. Walking up to it, I couldn't help feeling both overwhelmed and mystified. Additions on grand public buildings had gone from needing to be indistinguishable from the original building to being glaringly, obviously, different, but it could just as easily go back.

Susie bumped into me from behind when I slowed to a halt, and she pushed me along impatiently. She had insisted on coming, said there wasn't anything else to do, and nothing I could say could put her off. She'd heard about Tom before, in the few stories I'd told her about Mansfield. Tom had been a safe subject.

When we got to the reception area, Susie grabbed my hand and tried to get around concierge by virtue of her confident attitude, but I stopped her, pulling her instead to a pinch-faced woman at the front desk. Susie rolled her eyes and stuck her hands deep in her sweatshirt pockets, standing behind me and very probably glowering as the now-annoyed concierge took down my information.

"Thomas Samuel Bertram…" she scanned her screen. "ICU. You wanted to visit him?" Her voice was nasal and clipped with no discernible accent. I could just imagine Susie's impersonation of her. I had to get her away from the desk before she did it for the woman's benefit.

"Yes." Susie huffed in impatience behind me, probably suppressing a sarcastic comment.

"Family only. You're family?"

"He's my cousin." She took than down, then waved us at the elevator, giving vague directions.

Once the doors had closed, Susie piped up. "You're going to hell."

"How so?" I leaned against the back wall.

"Lying's a sin, Flan. Not religious, and even I know that."

"Yeah, well, estranged foster sister doesn't have quite the same ring to it."

We fell silent for a moment. The elevator slowed to a stop.

"Are you ever gonna tell me what it was like there?" The doors opened, and I threw a glance at her before I stepped out.

"Maybe. Probably."

She huffed again, slouching behind me as we made our way down the hallway. There were arrows pointing the way to different sets of rooms, so that even in the bland, near-identical passageways we were able to find our way without much trouble. I paused for a moment, a few feet from Tom's door, taking a breath to steady myself. Susie was quiet next to me. Maybe her silence was anticipation, maybe it was concern for me. I don't know; I didn't turn around.

When I stepped in view of the room, the first thing I saw was Tom, ghost-white on the hospital bed, his skin easily as pale as his sheets and hospital gown. He looked like he'd lost about twenty pounds, with his bones sticking out of his skin. His shock of chestnut hair stood out as the only remotely vivid thing about him, and even that was limp with grease and neglect. The blood seemed to be hiding from his skin entirely. By contrast, Ned's hand, clutching Tom's on the bed, looked hale and hearty.

Ned. He had turned at the movement in the doorway, and now sat frozen in his chair, staring at us with wide eyes. I studied him, saw the dark circles under his eyes, the crease in the middle of the forehead, the tightness in his jaw.

"Flannery." His voice was quiet.

"Ned." I couldn't look at him, and I couldn't quite look away. I examined the room, the bed, the window, the curtains, his face, his posture, his clothes. I moved aside to let Susie into the room, and a blankness I didn't like descended on Ned's face before it cleared and he smiled.

"You must be Susie."

"Yeah," she said, and though her voice was rougher than either of ours, she followed our lead and spoke quietly. "That's me. But who are you?"

The smile slid off Ned's face and he nodded. He turned his face to mine, but I was too busy looking at my hands and at Tom's face and at the sun shining through the window. There was a vase of flowers on a small table by the door. Did the hospital provide flowers to rooms? That was probably too expensive.

"I'm Ned," his voice came behind me. He cleared his throat. "Tom's brother. It's nice to finally meet you." He must have shaken her hand.

"Yeah, you too. Except, I mean, I've heard of Tom, right, and all his—I mean, your sisters, I guess, but I don't think I've ever heard of you."

"I haven't talked much about anyone," I said, raising my eyes to the popcorn ceiling tiles.

"I mean, yeah. But still—"

"Suze." She stopped. I finally turned around to see Susie staring down at her shoes, her ears red with anger or embarrassment or both. Ned was watching me like I was a bomb about to go off.

"Sorry." I took a deep breath, then gestured to a chair. "Let's try this again. Suze, you can sit here."

She shook her head. "I'm going to go get some hot chocolate. I saw a Starbucks outside."

"There's a cafeteria, too." But she wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. "Do you have money?"

"Yes, mom. I'll be gone for a few minutes. Bring you guys back something, yeah?" She was out the door before either of us could say anything. There were several breaths' worth of silence as Ned watched me and I leaned against the wall and watched Tom breathe. He made a barrier between Ned and me, and I was shamefully grateful for it.

So I breathed, and breathed some more.

"How are you?" Ned was blinking at the blanket that covered Tom's legs.

"You don't call, you don't write."

He glanced at me, then away again. "You look wonderful."

I studied him again. There were new lines around his eyes. The familiar crinkle in his forehead seemed to be permanent now. His cheekbones were more pronounced, and the dark circles under his eyes greatly resembled bruises. Was all this the work of only one night?

"You look terrible."

He looked at me sharply, but then he was laughing in a burst of breath, and he bent his head closer to Tom's bed as if in prayer.

"I guess I must." He looked back up at me, and I found suddenly that I had nothing left to say. We sat in silence for a moment, and it was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable.

"Thank you for coming," his voice was a whisper.

"You did the same thing for me once."

_Twice. A hundred times. _

"That was…" He trailed off, unwilling to finish that thought. My mind supplied possible conclusions into the following silence. _Different. Before. Easy._ Maybe all of those. Maybe none.

"What happened?" Tom's machine beeped, acknowledging his heartbeat, announcing it to the room.

Ned cleared his throat. "He was on a long bender. Wasn't eating, barely sleeping. Yates didn't notice. No one noticed. Or cared. He lost control one night, fell down some stairs, then got into a fight at a bar and collapsed. Renal failure, severe dehydration. Risk of cirrhosis. Liver disease. We're still watching it to make sure. He fractured his hip when he fell. Apparently he lost some bone mass when…well."

Tom's face, so pale on his pillow. His cheekbones were jutting out, his skin sallow. The years had been hard on these two. Ned was blinking again, and he wouldn't look at me. I took a step away from the wall, then another, and reached out to put a hand on my shoulder. He let out another breath, then another, and I felt a shudder go through his body. I stepped closer and put my arms around his shoulders. His body felt smaller than it had before; he felt thin against my chest, almost frail. There was much less of him now than there had been before. Something else was wrong, and it had been for a long time.

He put his hand on my arms, pulling them closer. His body shuddered again and again, and I held him tighter until he turned in my arms and threw his own around me. I sat on the foot of Tom's bed to make it easier on both of us. He was weeping openly now, but quietly, reservedly. If Tom had been watching, if he could have seen, he would have been exasperated.

"I'm sorry," he said it into my shoulder. "I'm so sorry." A sob racked his body.

I started to cry, then, too. He repeated himself, stroking my hair with one hand, rubbing my back with the other. Trying to comfort me while he was sobbing.

"You left me," I whispered. I hadn't meant to say anything. "You left me."

His arms tightened around me and then we were rocking back and forth, though whether he had started it or I had, I couldn't say.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I love you, I'm so sorry."

We stopped, eventually. Eventually I pried myself away from him, and sat looking at his face, his puffy eyes, his creased forehead. I could look at him openly now, and he didn't seem to be having any trouble either.

He brushed a strand of hair off my face. "How did you find out?"

I pulled away from his hand a little, and he let it fall in his lap without comment. "Your mom called."

"She did? She's full of surprises." He ran his hands over his face and into his hair in a gesture that was so familiar that my heart turned over. I'd forgotten he did that.

I shrugged. "She's worried."

We watched each other for a second.

"You look really bad, you know." His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he laughed again, though it seemed less painful this time.

"I know. Grad school does that, apparently. I had a professor tell us that three hours of sleep a night and a cup of rice and beans a day is a noble sacrifice. I'm not sure."

"Sounds nonsensical."

His grin was thin, but it was a grin. "Yes, it does."

"You're almost done, though, right?"

He sighed. "Almost."

There was an obvious line of questioning there, but I ignored it and we sat in silence. Tom's machine beeped, and the sun went behind a cloud.

"How are you?" I turned back to meet his eyes. He watched me for a moment. "Are you happy?"

I had to take a deep breath to answer that question. "Yeah. I am." He didn't speak—he just looked at me, waiting, maybe, for more. "I'm in school right now. Architecture program."

A slow, sweet smile lit up his face, a smile that would have melted me into a puddle three years ago. "You're doing it."

I shrugged. "Slowly. Very, very slowly."

"You're still doing it."

We looked at each other silently again, knee to knee, hands in our own laps.

"Thank you for coming," he said again, this time to his interlaced fingers. "I don't think I could have-" he looked at Tom, then reached out for a moment to touch his brother's hand. It hurt to look at the two of them. I couldn't think how Tom had ever thought that Ned didn't care about him.

"Have you been here all night?"

He nodded. "I've been in Boston since Thursday." He had the grace to look sheepish. "I was trying to find him," he gestured to Tom. "He'd been gone for months, no calls, no check-ins, not even with Mom, so I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know where he was exactly until he called me one night."

"Drunk?"

Ned nodded. "Out of his mind. So I tried to find him, but couldn't until Yates called me. Apparently he thought it would be faster to drive Tom to the hospital himself, but he hit a curb and bloodied his temple and…well, here we are."

A nurse stepped into the room. "Ah, company!" She smiled down at Ned. "Good. I was starting to worry we'd have to clear a bed for you. Gloria," she said, holding out her hand.

"Flannery," I said, and we shook hands. "You've been here all night, too?"

"Forty-eight-hour shifts, honey," she said, coming over to check on Tom. "Are you sitting on his legs?" I rose to show her that his legs were safe, and she chuckled. "Just giving you a hard time. Ned, honey, you should get some sleep."

"I'll sleep when you do," he said, and even though he was smiling, we could all hear the exhaustion in his voice.

"Oh, so you're sleeping right now, pretending to be awake. Just like me. Well, he's looking okay over here. We're going to have to do some check-ins on his liver and kidneys. He should be good on dialysis for a couple days, but hopefully his kidneys'll kick in in a little bit, so we won't have to keep doing it over and over."

I glanced at Ned, and then back to Gloria. "Do you think he'll be okay?" Ned shifted back in his seat, taking a deep breath. I reached for his hand, held it in mine. Gloria noticed but didn't bat an eyelash.

"It's probably unprofessional of me to tell you this, but I think he will be. I mean, still early days, blah blah blah, and there's risk of a lot of different kinds of complications, from cirrhosis to pneumonia to brittle bones, but he's young and has a long history of proper nutrition and exercise and he has family who, frankly, have the money to take care of him. So I really can't say that he'll be okay, but you know, shine bright, shine far, be a star."

I laughed. Ned didn't. Gloria straightened and said, a little more soberly, "I've seen a lot of people in really bad shape. A lot of hopeless cases come through here. I'm not saying it's a slam dunk, here, but I am very hopeful. And I hope you'll be hopeful, too."

Ned's hand was trembling. I held it tighter. "Thank you, Gloria."

Gloria left us, and we sat frozen for a moment. Ned stirred himself to speak. "You've changed." There was a smile on the edge of his lips, but it was faint.

I smiled back. "Yeah, I'm taller."

"Taller?"

"A couple inches, at least."

"Oh, wow. Now that's an achievement."

"Yeah, I thought you'd be proud."

"Oh, definitely. Very, very proud."

When Susie came back, holding a cup holder with our coffee, Ned and I were silent, hand in hand, watching Tom sleep.


	30. Education

It took bullying and bribing and cajoling on our parts, but eventually Susie and I convinced Ned to leave the hospital and come home with us. By the time we got him on the T, he was so tired that he could barely stand. Eventually, the rhythm of the Orange Line put him right to sleep, and his head lolled on my shoulder. I let it stay there.

Susie watched us soberly from across the aisle. When she saw me looking, she jerked her chin at Ned. "Why didn't you tell me about him?" Her jaw was working, maybe getting ready for the shrug she assumed would be my answer. I sighed instead, and checked Ned to make sure he was asleep.

"We were really close, Ned and me. When we were growing up."

"I guessed. What happened?"

I checked Ned again. There had been a sort of magical calm over the two of us at the hospital, a quiet sanctuary where no explanation had been necessary. I was reluctant to break it up, even when he couldn't hear me.

"When things got bad," I began, "I thought he'd understand my side like he usually did. And he didn't. I took that pretty hard. Didn't want to talk about him yet." I leaned back, resting against the windows. "It wasn't about you. I just…I didn't want to."

She nodded, staring down at her sneakers. "How did things get bad? Or don't you wanna tell me?" Her voice was flat—I felt it flatten me, too.

I stared at her until she raised her eyes to mine. "I want to tell you. But you know how it is with me and…I mean, it would be easier to…if you could go there, if we could. I could show you. That might be easier than telling you. I don't think I could," I admitted finally, "tell you. In words, I mean."

"Was it really that bad?"

I tried a smile. "Sometimes it was. And sometimes it was perfect. And sometimes it was nothing."

She slumped back in her seat, her gangly legs lolling out into the aisle. "Jeez, don't be too obvious about it. Try an be a little more cryptic, why don't you?" Then she smiled at me, and I smiled back at her, unbearably relieved that she liked me again.

We caught a cab from the station, and Susie and I woke Ned enough to climb our front steps and walk down the hallway to my bedroom. We had given the hospital Ned's cell number to call in case something changed, and I charged the phone next to me while I worked, checking it every so often to make sure it wasn't on silent.

I got down to reading relatively easily, all the while conscious of Ned's presence in my house. I made more progress than usual—maybe because the physics of Gothic arches was significantly easier to understand than anything that had happened in the last twenty hours. The fact that Ned Bertram was asleep on my bed would have made me go into a minor panic attack a few years ago, but now I wasn't quite sure what to think. Now that I wasn't in love with Ned, how did I relate to him? What kind of person would he be now that I didn't worship the ground he walked on?

I buried my head in my reading and didn't stop for breath.

What must have been hours later, Ned said, "Don't want to bother you, but do you want some dinner?"

I snapped my head up to look at him, bleary-eyed in his rumpled t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare, his fingers straightening his hair. He looked like a grumpy baby. I told him so.

He blinked at me, surprised, then snorted with laughter. "I'm pretty sure I am one." He sat in the chair across from me, taking in my sea of books. "Hard at work?"

"Always." I stretched over the back of my chair.

"How's it going?"

"Like, since you fell asleep?"

"No, like, the books. The college. Everything."

I sighed, running my own hand through my hair. "Slow."

He leveled his gaze at me, then at my books. "Compared to other people, or compared to how you want to be doing?"

"Yes." He snorted again, bending his head to rest on his fists on the tabletop.

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Maybe. Can you teach me how to, you know, learn stuff? And study?"

He blinked. "God, I don't even know. We can give it a shot, if you like."

"At this point, I'll take anything. I'll take magic from a swamp witch. Whatever."

"A swamp witch?" He raised an eyebrow, barely containing his laughter. "Not a lot of those ladies around."

"I'm resourceful. I'll find one."

"But I was serious. What do you want to do about dinner?"

"I'd like to have some."

"Good, then we're in agreement. Can I…" he trailed off, looking at the fridge.

"Yeah. Happy hunting." I heard him open the fridge and rummage around for a moment.

"Frozen pizza or leftover pasta?"

"Frozen pizza. Definitely."

"Where's Susie?"

"She babysits across the street on Thursdays. She should be back in an hour or so."

A companionable silence fell as Ned ripped open the pizza box and preheated the oven, then came to sit across from me again. I read to the end of the article, circling back twice to make sure I didn't miss any information, then highlighted what I thought was important. Sometimes I got it right. I sat back again, rubbing the back of my head underneath my fall of hair. I sighed, looking up to see Ned watching me.

"It's that hard on you?"

A twinge of embarrassment made the bottom of my stomach twist, but it was gone in a moment. Ned was watching me soberly, not a hint of a smile or judgment on his face.

I sighed again, tossing my highlighter down on the table. "Yeah. I mean, I basically only just learned how to sit still for long enough to read. Now I'm supposed to be reading this and understanding it the first time, and then be good enough at it to discuss it _right_ after I read it. It's going okay. Just not great. I basically sleep here or on the couch most nights. It's a good thing you're here. My bed can get some actual use."

He nodded, looking down to watch his fingers beat a pattern on the place mat in front of him. "Do you like it, though?"

I smiled. "Yeah. I mean, when I don't hate it. I like designing. And I like learning what works and what doesn't. I don't like the math part, or the reading the theory part. I like the _doing_. The drawing, the thinking. I like that. And I like being able to see what other people were thinking when they made something. I can do that better, now."

He nodded, chin still on his hands. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks," I said down to my highlighter.

Seconds ticked by where neither of us said anything. Then it hit me. "Ned?"

"Yeah?" We could have been kids again, looking up through the leaves of the big tree out front.

"That was the longest conversation we've ever had." I looked up to see a small smile work its way into his eyes and barely stretch the corners of his mouth.

"I know."

"You weren't going to say anything."

"Nope. I think it's one thing if you point it out. It's completely different if I make a big deal out of it."

"But it is a big deal."

"If you think it is, then I agree. But it would rude of me to say it first." The silence that fell between us was so thick that I could hear his watch ticking on his wrist.

"I wasn't joking," I said finally. "You did look terrible. You look like you haven't eaten in months."

He shrugged. "Rice and beans." I watched him. The grin faded off of his face, and he straightened up to sit back in his chair. "Things have been rough on my end, too." His voice grew quiet. He spoke to my dictionary.

"Not, like, binge-drinking-and-setting-things-on-fire rough, right?"

He did that strange explosive laugh again, "Right. Not that bad."

"How bad?"

He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders before looking at me.

"Bad."

"For how long?"

"Since you left." He was looking down at the table again. "To be clear, I'm aware that I was the one who abandoned you and that's part of the reason why you left. So please know that I'm not saying you're at fault for getting away from Mansfield and… I'm just saying that I haven't been able to get it together since you did leave. That's all."

The look on his face made tears well up in my eyes, but I blinked them back and tried to control my voice.

"What does that mean, that you haven't been able to get it together?"

He took several deep breaths. "I think I took you being there so much for granted that I…I don't know. Talking to you always helped me figure things out. What to do, what to say, how to say it. You always knew what you thought, and you always stuck with it, even when nobody else did. I think I depended on you without knowing it. I definitely looked up to you."

"You did?" He looked up then, at the incredulity in my voice, and bit back a laugh.

"Yeah. Always. You knew what was right and you knew what was wrong and you always did the right thing. Not like me. I knew what was right, too, but I could be persuaded to do the wrong thing. I didn't think that that was how I was. Am. But it's true. You can buy my opinion. Nobody could ever buy yours."

"You're being hard on yourself."

"Maybe," he shrugged again. "But I think it's true. And it's probably better that I'm hard on myself than let it go, really. Ultimately."

I imagined Susie's face, hearing Ned say the word "ultimately" so casually. The thought cheered me briefly.

"Ned. What's going on with you and Mary?"

He sat back in his chair hard, running a hand through his hair. "See, that's what I'm talking about. Or part of it, anyway."

"Is she a bad opinion?" My bemused frown seemed to amuse him briefly, but he waved his hand.

"No. I mean, probably. Probably, definitely. I don't know. See, I know she doesn't want what I want. I know we're so completely different that it's ridiculous and it's not working, but at the same time, whenever we break up, we're both miserable. Like, we just went on a break a couple weeks ago and already I'm back with her. I _know_ it's bad, and I _know _she's bad for me, and I'm pretty sure I'm bad for her, but at the same time, there's nothing I can do about how it is because I'm crazy about her and there's literally no one else for me and it's a problem. And I just wished I had your clarity on that, too. You know when someone's bad for you and you steer clear of them."

I gave that a thought—decided not to contradict him.

"I missed you," he said again, this time to his fingers as they played with the edge of my notebook. "I didn't even consider what it would do to me, you not being home. Or, in my home." He rubbed both hands over his face. The dark circles under his eyes looked bigger.

"You know you're going to be okay," I said.

He sighed again. "I know. And really, I'm already pretty okay. Good family, lots of food, enough money, loving friends. I'm doing okay. No need to do the poor little rich kid thing. That's pretty tired, anyway."

"Hey. You're allowed to be unhappy if you're unhappy."

"I don't know—am I even unhappy? Being in a relationship with someone I love, that's not a good thing? Isn't that part of the definition of happiness?"

I shrugged, giving him a wry smile. "I don't know. I've never really seen a happy couple before. I wouldn't know what one looks like."

He looked about ready to rub his face in frustration. I turned my notebook to a clean page and drew a Hangman game. He smiled and guessed a letter. We took turns playing until the pizza was ready.

Susie came in as Ned was slicing the pizza. "Boom! Perfect timing." She threw herself down where Ned had been sitting.

"Hands. Wash them."

"Yes, mother." She got up and peeked over Ned's shoulder. "Oh, you used the Meat Lovers? Uncle Liam's gonna be so _pissed_." Ned paused, looking at me. I shook my head, motioning for him to keep slicing.

"I'll have to owe him one," said Ned.

"Better pay it back with interest. Two hundred percent."

"Wow, that's steep. I didn't realize Uncle Liam was a such a loan shark," I cleared my books away so that Susie and Ned had places to set their food down.

"You never know when it's your own family. It's always like, 'they're so great, they could never be criminals,' when all this time he's been shakin' the neighbors down for their Meat Lovers. And don't get me started on Four Cheese. Thank you," she said, grabbing the plate Ned offered her, along with a roll of paper towels for napkins. Ned came to the table with two more plates, then went back for glasses of water.

When we'd all settled down, Susie curled up her spider legs in her chair and turned to Ned. "Hey. Ned, right?"

"You got it."

"I've been wondering a thing. Maybe you can help."

"Maybe I can."

"What the hell is Mansfield even _like_, anyway?"


End file.
